











COPYRIGHT DEPOStti 






I 






I 





THE QUITTER 








THE QUITTER 


BY 

HARRIE VICTOR SCHIEREN 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 





Copyright, 1924 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


i v 


Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 
THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS* 







C1A801331 


C\ 


^ Jk, 


TO 

THE MEMORY OF 

C. J. S. 


















CONTENTS 


PART I 

PAGE 

Chapter I. i 

Chapter II. 15 

Chapter III .29 

Chapter IV. 39 

Chapter V.54 

Chapter VI. 7 1 

Chapter VII .77 

PART II 

Chapter I.95 

Chapter II. 

Chapter III. 133 

Chapter IV .161 

Chapter V .174 

Chapter VI .183 

Chapter VII. 2 °6 

Chapter VIII . 22 7 

Chapter IX . 2 43 

Chapter X. 2 53 

Chapter XI. 262 





















PART ONE 












THE QUITTER 


CHAPTER I 

A shaft of light from the late afternoon sun 
streamed through the window, filling the room with 
warm radiance and throwing into bold relief dull de¬ 
signs on the dark portieres. Tinged with the glory of 
the maple trees outside, it fell upon a great polar bear 
rug stretched in front of the fireplace, turning it a soft 
rose color, making a bright spot against the back¬ 
ground of the polished floor. It was a quiet, restful 
room, bookcases lining the walls on either side of a 
black onyx mantelpiece and in an alcove by the door¬ 
way a baby-grand piano, standing now with the cover 
over the keyboard closed and the piano stool pushed 
away underneath. 

Craig Hallowell, nervously pacing to and fro, glanced 
at the clock for the hundredth time. What a terrible 
strain this day had been! Why didn’t the doctor 
come? This awful day, would it never end? The 
sun was sinking in the west, it was not yet over, no, 
x 


2 THE QUITTER 

far from that, it had hardly begun. How many more 
hours . . . 

Only last night Dora had sat there at the piano while 
they laughed together and she had played over some of 
those simple, foolish old songs. How she had laughed. 
Rarely in these latter months had she been in such 
spirits: radiant, he had thought her. And then that 
waking in the middle of the night. “Oh, it’s nothing, 
dear,” she had assured him, but something in the drawn 
look of her face had told him that it was the great 
event: and the next thing the nurse, the doctor, all the 
rest of it, and then the long, long day of waiting. 
What a helpless hunk of humanity he was! If there 
was only something that he could do. Mrs. Coddins, 
dear old soul, had told him that he had better not re¬ 
main in the sick room and so he had wandered about 
the house from room to room, like a wild animal con¬ 
fined in a cage. He had tried to concentrate, to read, 
but the words before him meant nothing and he gave 
up in disgust. He took a short walk, too, and sud¬ 
denly getting into a panic, hurried home, his mind filled 
with vague alarm. 

Flopping down on the big couch before the fire, he 
lit a fresh cigar. How many he had smoked since 
daylight . . . Good little Dora, were all women as 
brave as she? Did they all go through this hell, bear¬ 
ing children? What if something should happen 


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3 


now, some unforeseen thing, like those fearsome hap¬ 
penings old women talk about in whispers. The 
sweat broke out upon his brow. 

Five years since they had been married. Was it pos¬ 
sible that it had been as long a time as that. And now 
they were to have a child, longed for blessing: how they 
had hoped . . . 

He remembered that wedding day in golden June. 
She had always chaffed him about: “And don’t you re¬ 
member Kate Dow and her husband?” He did not. 
“But they were there, Craig. I believe that you were 
only half alive that day, for you did look scared to 
death.” And then, “Why, oh, why, did you hang 
those daisies all around the door in one straight line? 
I think it was the funniest thing I have ever seen. You 
were fussed, now weren’t you?” And he always ad¬ 
mitted with perfect sincerity that he had been. She 
carried everything before her, did Dora, she had fairly 
swept him off his feet and willed him to propose, happy 
and desirable thing; she had known him better than 
he knew himself, her intuition had been true, a love 
match, yes, surely it was that. 

And they had prospered in those early years of mar¬ 
ried life, young things embarked on a great journey. 
What wonderful years they had been, the happiest of 
his life. “Something old, something new, something 
borrowed, something blue.” True to old tradition, she 


4 


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had worn them. An optimist was Dora, a gay world 
through rose-tinted glasses, that was hers, and when 
he was down-hearted, blue or discouraged, well, you 
couldn’t stay that way very long with her around. 
How she could straighten out little problems, throw¬ 
ing upon them the light of her clear and simple logic. 
Lacking her, what would life hold . . . 

ii 

Maysville, that little New England town where they 
first met, had for them a glamour all its own. Miss 
Meiggs Select Seminary for Young Ladies, where, 
after the death of her parents, Dora had been sent by 
an austere, old aunt, became the gateway of true ro¬ 
mance. Young Craig, holding down a place at a board¬ 
ing school not many miles distant, was the gay cavalier. 
A high stone wall surrounded the seminary grounds 
and he counted the scaling of it as one of the great 
feats of his life. While prim Miss Meiggs left her 
young charges in the supposed seclusion of the gar¬ 
den, eager youths daily climbed the barrier and sat be¬ 
hind the hawthorn hedges looking into laughing girl¬ 
ish eyes, until the look-out, drawn by lot and posted 
with care, gave the danger signal. Then back over the 
wall they would go, helped out by the over-hanging 
branches of a friendly cherry tree. Thus it had be- 


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5 


gun for them in the happy golden days of youth, love’s 
young dream had come to them, love’s young dream . . . 

Through his college days Dora remained in the com¬ 
parative seclusion of Aunt Agatha’s home in Hart¬ 
ford, where the old lady, believing in nothing of a 
later date than the early General Grant epoch, lived 
a life of stern refinement and awful culture. The 
two young people kept up a lively correspondence, see¬ 
ing each other at intervals, when Craig ran up from 
New Haven at the end of the week, as he did when¬ 
ever such a thing were possible, these visits depend¬ 
ing largely upon the state of his finances and Agatha’s 
moods. Once, as a special treat, Dora was allowed to 
go to a college prom, and those two days of freedom 
lingered long in memory. 

“Sometimes I get very tired of it all,” she wrote 
back; “black satin is so terribly refined, you know. 
I mean it sort of stifles, smothers, and Aunty never 
wears anything else but black satin. I hate the rustle 
of it, it reminds me of dead people, funerals, sad, sad 
things, like the death of little children. And yet she 
is a dear, and way down deep in that old heart of hers, 
there is a spark, only she won’t let it start a blaze. 
She keeps everything hidden away, afraid someone will 
see her true self. Old age is pitiful, isn’t it?” And 
again, “You can’t guess how much your last visit meant 


6 


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to me, Craig. It was terribly sweet of you to come, 
and Aunty brightened up a whole lot. It cheered her 
poor soul; she does take life so seriously.” 

But the brightening up was not because of Craig’s 
visit alone, for the sunshine in her young niece’s heart 
was penetrating that old husk. Dora’s irresistible 
gaiety, put to the test, slowly but surely won its way 
and the young Yale student, on his next visit, was sur¬ 
prised at the change. 

'‘Your aunt, how did it happen? I never saw any-jj 
thing like it. Why, she’s actually wearing white mous-% 
seline de soie” | 

Dora laughed, “Silly boy, it’s not mousseline de soie! 
Wherever did you get that idea? It’s crepe de chine 
and very daring for her. Tell her how well she looks 
in it, we’ll have her riding a bicycle yet!” 

“Irresistible Dora,” thought Craig, “what a won¬ 
derful person you are!” And the wonderful person 
became even more wonderful as the months went by; 
the only person of his thoughts, all his hopes, all his 
ambitions, revolving about her. Yet, how could he 
ask her to marry him, what had he to offer? Pros¬ 
pects, yes; fair, as good as any man just leaving his 
university; as good, but no better than the average. 

But it happened all the same, because it had to 
happen. Embarked on an engineering career in the big 
city, his loneliness was acute. No more week-end trips 


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7 


to Hartford; grind, just grind all day and sometimes 
far into the night. Sunday, a day to lie in bed and 
rest and try to gather strength for the next week. It 
was not easy and it was not much fun either. 

There came a day when a member of his firm oblig¬ 
ingly died, obligingly he was buried on a Friday and 
the office closed until Monday morning. Scandalous 
thing, he attended the funeral with a light heart, never 
had he felt so gay. He almost smiled while the minis¬ 
ter read the service. When the four o’clock train 
pulled out of the Grand Central Station that afternoon, 
it carried one passenger who grinned on very slight 
provocation, who read the signs along the side of the 
track while whistling a tune, who chafed at every 
delay. . . . 

“So you are lonesome in New York, are you?” said 
Dora. “How sorry I am for you.” 

“And are you lonely here, now that I come up so 
seldom; are you? I don’t see why . . But he did 
not finish the sentence. 

“Why don’t you get married?” Dora asked him 
frankly. 

His mind wobbled a bit, there was a mist before his 
eyes, he clutched at his collar a moment. 

“Will you? Do? Oh, gosh hang it, how happy I 


8 


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In good time came that June day when at Aunt 
Agatha’s they were married. And Aunty cried a little 
and asked Craig to be very kind to her small niece. 
Then the honeymoon, granted by Craig’s employer, 
who was beginning to realize the true worth of his 
young college assistant. 

“Don’t let’s live right in the awful city,” Dora had 
said. 

So he rented a snug apartment in one of the suburbs, 
a cosy place, just big enough for two: and there they , 
came and settled down. How happy were those years^ 
that followed. Aunt Agatha, good soul, helped them 
out, though Craig protested vehemently. 

“But she wants to do it,” Dora told him, “it gives 
her lots of pleasure, she hasn’t a chick or a child in the 
world now.” 

He gave in, “Well, let her then.” 

Engineering proved profitable. The great city 
spreading out on every side, building going on at all 
points of the compass, the university man used his 
modern ideas and new methods, bringing in the spirit 
of youth and progress. He was taken into the firm, 
his career had begun. 

The third year of married life saw them moving into 
a house of their own design: a small but substantial 
dwelling with room in it for expansion. Prosperity, 
happiness, no clouds to mar their horizon, each day 


THE QUITTER 9 

bringing with it something new of hope and joy . . . 

He gazed at the fire, remembering all those years, 
how bright life seemed. 


hi 

The sun set and in the west lingered a last faint glow. 
The room now shrouded in darkness, save for the feeble 
light coming from the fireplace, suddenly oppressed 
him with its gloom. He felt utterly tired out, yet all 
day long he had been doing nothing. Poor little 
Dora ... he wondered if it would be long now. The 
front doorbell rang suddenly and, bounding from his 
chair, he met the doctor in the hall. 

“Hello, you look all upset. . . .” 

Craig stopped him with a glance. “Upset! Well, 
why shouldn’t I.” 

Dean threw back his head and laughed. 

“The first child. Yes, I know what that means. 
I’ve just delivered a mother of her ninth baby; wait 
until Mrs. Hallowell has had a few more.” 

“Nine children, my God, that’s vulgar!” 

“It’s getting to be, but I was the seventh in my 
family. Women were different in those days though.” 

Mrs. Coddins appeared at the top of the stairs. 

“Doctor, better come up right away,” she called 
anxiously. 


IO 


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Dean put on his professional manner, picked up his 
little black satchel and quickly disappeared around the 
second floor landing. 

Left alone, Craig peered after the retreating form. 
Was there ever a more complacent human being? 
Damn it; how sure he was of himself; nine chil¬ 
dren . . . squalling, dribbling kids. For a moment he 
stood there, vacantly gazing up the stairs, his brain a 
tumult. How quiet the house was . . . the very air 
seemed weighted down with something. 

Returning to the library, he lit the lights, wondering 
why the maid hadn’t attended to that long ago. The 
house was awry, everything was upset with Dora laid 
low. He picked up a book and tried to concentrate, 
but the pages blurred and he flung it aside. From up¬ 
stairs came the muffled sound of voices, heavy foot¬ 
steps creaked across the floor. Someone was drawing 
water; you could hear it surge through the pipes; the 
pressure was much too strong, he must get the plumber 
to fix that; no sense in being wasteful, the bills were 
much too big. Only the other day Dora had spoken 
about it. 

Sitting down at his desk he drew out a small pad 
and in a shaky hand wrote: “Have plumber fix 
water pressure.” Dora would not have written it that 
way, she would simply have said, “Water pressure,” 
writing in that firm thin hand of hers and if she had 


THE QUITTER 


ii 


seen his memorandum, she would have chaffed about it: 
“Why add all the rest? You know what it means 
without it.” Her household lists were models of brev¬ 
ity. He drew a long curlique thingamajig on the bot¬ 
tom of the sheet, filling in the spaces with dead black 
and ending up with a grand flourish, then threw the 
whole thing in the waste paper basket. 

Waiting, idling away time . . . everything possible 
had been done, the doctor was one of the best men in 
his profession, and Mrs Coddins was, well, just herself, 
admirable in every way. Dora had approached this 
thing with unusual calm. What courage these frail 
women had, inborn from the beginning of time. Dean 
had said to him once and the words came back to him 
now with stinging force: “If men bore our children, 
there would have been just one birth in the history of 
the world and the race would have stopped right there.” 
At the time he didn’t realize how true that was, but 
now after this long, long day, it was pregnant with 
meaning. 

He felt wholly useless, beaten down, superfluous . . . 
And then from somewhere in the upper part of the 
house there came a strange, small cry, like a kitten it 
sounded, welling up it grew into a strong, plaintive wail. 

IV 

Standing in the door of the Holy of Holies, Craig 


12 


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blinked to accustom himself to the semi-darkness of 
the room. The air was full of the sickly fumes of 
chloroform. 

"It’s a boy," beamed Mrs. Coddins. "Come in, 
come in and see your son." 

Over the bed a bright light, shaded so as to reflect all 
the illumination downwards, was burning, and there the 
doctor crouched, in his hand a gleaming instrument. 

"There, that’s all, Mrs. Hallowell,” he said, "and 
everything is as right as could be.” 

From the pillow came a long drawn sigh, a white 
hand plucked at the comforter. Craig sank down be¬ 
side the bed. 

"Dearest,” he whispered, "you are wonderful, it’s 
all over now, no more pain. . . .” 

Dora choked a little. "Oh, I’m so happy! Did you 
hear it cry? Aren’t you glad you have a son? Oh, 
Craig!” he kissed her while feeble arms clung to him. 

The nurse put her firm hand on his shoulder. "Bet¬ 
ter go now, she’s still a bit giddy from the chloroform. 
Doctor gave her just a whiff at the last. Come and 
see the baby.” 

In a bassinet at the foot of the bed lay his young 
son and heir and as he gazed upon the specimen, very 
small, and very red, somehow his heart was filled with 
rebellion. So this was what had caused Dora all that 
anguish. On its back it kicked small feet straight up 


THE QUITTER 


13 


into the air, hands, no bigger than a penny, opened and 
shut. Then suddenly the grotesque face puckered up 
into a knot, and the wee mouth opened wide in a long 
drawn cry. 

Craig’s eyes softened. “Homely little beggar,” he 
said half to himself. 

“Homely, nonsense,” put in Mrs. Coddins, “he’s a 
beautiful baby, not very big, perhaps, but beautiful 
all the same.” 

Craig said nothing. It was the first time that he had 
seen a newly born infant and it gave him a bit of a 
shock. He wondered at the old nurse’s idea of beauty: 
but, darn it all, the youngster was cute, no getting 
around that, and it seemed intelligent, too, wonderful 
instinct, probably it was crying because it was hungry. 
A bull in a china shop, he tip-toed past the bed, where 
his wife was sleeping, her light hair spread out over 
the pillow, a smile upon her lips. 

“She will want to see you again in an hour or so,” 
Mrs. Coddins told him. “Poor dear!” And she 
pushed him out of the room, ambling back to croon over 
the baby. 

Downstairs Dean met him, he extended his hand. 
“Hallowell, let me congratulate you.” 

Craig, feeling very stiff and formal returned the 
handshake. 

“Everything is absolutely normal,” said the doctor, 


14 


THE QUITTER 


'‘no complications. She will be right as a trivet in no 
time. The child is a bit small and undernourished, but 
we can soon set that right You can get me if I’m 
needed at any time, but I’ll be in first thing in the morn¬ 
ing.” Picking up his hat and pulling on his coat: 
“Well, I’m off to attend another case. Good night!” 

Craig opened the door for him and he passed out 
into the darkness. Was there ever a more business¬ 
like man. Another case . . . probably another baby. 
Nine children ... it was disgusting; nine, oh, the 
agony of it! 

Into his refuge, the library, he went once more, when 
the maid coming softly in from the hallway, announced 
that dinner was ready. Pulling himself out of the deep 
reverie into which he had fallen, he sat down at the 
table, and, for the first time in his married life, ate 
his dinner alone. 


CHAPTER II 


At the end of a month, old Mrs. Coddins left. She 
was superseded by a raw-boned Irish girl, just gradu¬ 
ated from training school. Craig had secured her af¬ 
ter many consultations with Dora, helped out by advice 
from some half dozen of her friends, for it seemed that 
everybody in the world held different ideas on the 
subject. 

“We can’t be too careful, you know,” his wife had 
said. “Freddy is a delicate child and these first few 
months mean so much.” He wondered where she had 
learned all this baby lore. “You see, I can’t nurse him, 
worse luck, so we need a very reliable person, one who 
has had experience.” 

It proved to be experience, too, in more ways than 
one, for Delia was one of those well-meaning humans 
who go blundering along through life, smiling a sweet 
smile, but leaving in their wake a trail of small 
calamities. 

“I guess I’ll have to mix the food myself,” Dora 
confided. “Nurse can’t seem to get the hang of it and 
you know what nights we have put in lately. I have 
only just found out that she hasn’t been making the 
formula up correctly.” 


15 


i6 


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“Good Lord, then why not get another woman!” 

“No, I wouldn’t do that for the world. She’s a dear 
in some ways and the baby is just getting used to her.” 

“Are you going to mix this stuff yourself? If you 
are, what on earth is she going to do?” 

“Silly boy, she has her hands full and never com¬ 
plains about anything. She’s the best natured human 
being I have ever seen and you must acknowledge she 
means well.” 

He said nothing, remembering lots of other people 
who meant well: one of them had wrecked a rival con¬ 
cern in his own line of business. He kept his opinions 
to himself, however; it was useless to argue with Dora 
about anything which concerned her child. He found 
that out in the first week. She felt herself all sufficient 
in so far as Freddy was concerned, asking advice, some¬ 
times, listening to it . . . sometimes, and then doing 
just as she thought best, throwing counsel to the winds. 
That attitude was characteristic of her, and it often 
fooled those who did not know her well; for to all out¬ 
ward appearances, she was a trusting little soul, one of 
those persons who need and crave guidance. As a 
matter of fact, she was thoroughly self-reliant. 

ii 

The baby slept in the same room with them, an¬ 
other of Dora’s ideas, though he could not for the life 


THE QUITTER 17 

of him see why it was necessary, with the fat nurse be¬ 
ing paid for taking care of the child. 

“She needs her rest,” his wife assured him, “she’s 
on her feet all day long . . 

Craig, heating prepared food at three o’clock in the 
morning, felt the need of a little rest himself; the baby 
was crying, the slippery nipple refused to go over the 
neck of the bottle: somehow it exasperated him, so darn 
unnecessary, and fat Delia sound asleep. In the morn¬ 
ing he awoke with a headache and was out of sorts 
all day. 

He saw very little of his son except at those awful 
parties in the wee small hours. At other times the 
youngster was either asleep or out with the nursemaid. 
From his limited acquaintance with Freddy, he found 
him a trying child and the picture that he got during 
those first few months was of a howling, red-faced mite, 
who apparently wanted to do nothing but suck con¬ 
tinually on a sticky bottle. 

On Sundays, though, he did get a better impression. 
Dora would prop the young man up in his basket, pil¬ 
lows behind his head, in a way approved by all the au¬ 
thorities, and the baby would look around the room, 
big blue eyes wide open, gazing at a world all new and 
strange. 

“Isn’t he a dear? See how knowing he is getting,” 
Dora said. “Why, yesterday, he turned his head and 


i8 


THE QUITTER 


looked at me when I came into the room.” And, gaz ¬ 
ing at them, he thought it the loveliest sight he had ever 
seen, and his boy, the noblest child in Christendom. 
Sitting there in the snug library with his family; it 
was hard to remember those wild gray mornings. 

hi 

“We ought to go out more,” he told his wife one 
evening. “Delia can be trusted to look after Freddy, 
can’t she? You’re stuck in the house too much and 
you are beginning to show it.” 

Dora laid down her embroidery, coming over and 
sitting on the arm of his chair. “You are not chid¬ 
ing me, are you?” she asked. 

“Chiding? Good Lord, no, I’m not doing that, 
only I don’t want to see you break down; really you 
don’t get much diversion these days, do you ?” 

“That’s just like a man. Can’t you realize that 
baby is all the diversion I want? When people have 
children they have to sacrifice something.” 

“Yes,” he agreed, “it does mean some sacrifice, but 
it doesn’t mean that we are never going out anywhere 
again, does it?” 

She ran her thin hands slowly through his hair, a 
trick she had when she wanted to gain her point. 

“Now don’t be foolish, he will be old before we know 
it and then we can do anything we want. Oh, but I 


THE QUITTER 19 

hate to think of his growing up, he’s so sweet just as 
he is.” 

“We hardly ever have a quiet moment together any 
more,” Craig persisted. 

“Poor little man,” she teased, “and does he want 
some attention, does he think his wife is neglecting 
him? Well, he shan’t be lonesome any longer.” She 
threw her arms about his neck. He held her close. 
She trembled a little and her eyes grew moist. 

“There, there,” he soothed, “now don’t be silly, I’m 
not complaining, only I think it’s for your own good.” 

She was sobbing now, on his shoulder. 

“I’m doing the best I know how. . . .” 

“You’re all unstrung, I knew it. Can’t you see that 
this won’t do, you take it all so seriously. He’s go¬ 
ing to be a baby an awful while. Now if you had a 
really competent nurse . . .” 

She sat up, drying her eyes with a lace handkerchief. 

“Why do you always talk like that? You don’t 
realize what a treasure Delia is, I couldn’t get along 
with anyone else. You don’t understand, that’s 
all. . . ” 

From upstairs came that thin cry. 

“He’s awake, it’s his feeding time, I must go.” 

He held her arm. “Let Delia do it,” he pleaded. 

“Let me go, I’ll be back directly,” and she ran from 
the room, white skirts fluttering up the stairs. 


20 


THE QUITTER 


Freddy cried for over an hour and when at last he 
slept, Dora was too worn out for anything but bed. 

IV 

Aunt Agatha came down from Hartford for a little 
visit and, with the old lady to take care of the baby, 
Dora consented to go out one evening. She left 
strict orders, however, that she wanted to be called 
instantly if needed. “We’re only going over to the 
Marchmands’, Aunty, it’s just a couple of blocks. 
This is the telephone number and here is the ice-box 
where we keep Freddy’s food and please be sure that 
Delia gives him his bottle at the proper time. Warm 
it to just the right temperature; you can test it by 
pouring a little on the back of your hand. It should be 
warm, not hot, and ...” 

“Run along, child,” Agatha laughed. “Don’t you 
think I know how to take care of a baby? You go 
and forget all about him for a while. Have a good 
time, he’ll be all right.” 

“But if you want me you will telephone, won’t you? 
I could be home in no time.” 

Craig, waiting impatiently in the lower hall, won¬ 
dered what in the world was keeping his wife. She 
had been ready, he thought, hours ago. 

“I say, Do,” he called, “aren’t you ever coming?” 

“All right, dear, don’t be cross,” she said as she 


THE QUITTER 


21 


came downstairs, “Eve had an awful lot to do, going 
out like this and leaving Freddy all alone/’ 

She looked radiant, cheeks aglow, hair piled high 
on her pretty head, an evening wrap thrown over her 
slim shoulders. He kissed her. 

“You look very sweet.” 

“How do you like my dress?” she asked, throwing 
aside the cape, while he caught a glimpse of lace and 
silver. 

“It’s beautiful,” and then in a lower voice, pinching 
her ear just a little, “and so are you.” 

“I’m glad you approve. Somehow I feel all sort of 
frumpish, it’s so long since I have thought about 
myself.” 

He laughed. “Why you look just as you always 
did. You haven’t changed any; having a baby 
doesn’t alter your whole life, does it? Why should 
you look any different ?” 

“I don’t know, but I feel years older.” 

“Nonsense, that’s just imagination!” 

She drew on her long white gloves, surveying her 
reflection in the hall mirror. 

“It’s raining,” Craig said, “so I got a cab; no use 
getting those little satin slippers all wet.” 

“You extravagant boy, a cab to go that distance.” 

“Well, we don’t go out very often these days, might 
as well do things up properly when we do.” 


22 THE QUITTER 

Inside the cab he drew her to him. “It’s nice to 
be alone, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, dear, it is, but please don’t muss my hair; I 
was hours doing it and it doesn’t look a bit as it 
should, even now.” 


v 

Rain pouring down out of a leaden sky as the 
horse ambled along over slippery asphalt. They 
turned a corner and stopped in front of the March- 
mand home. It was ablaze with light. 

“Why, they have a canopy up and everything!” 
Dora said gaily as they alighted at the curb. 

Jimmy Marchmand met them in the hall. 

“Hello, I am glad you two were able to come. 
Rotten night, isn’t it? We have hardly seen you at 
all lately, you’re so occupied with that little son of 
yours.” 

He whisked Dora off to the long drawing room, 
where they were swallowed up in a whirl of dancers. 

Craig, standing in the doorway, watched them. 
He cared little for dancing and was not very clever 
at the new steps, then coming into vogue. March¬ 
mand and Dora swept by. How pretty she looked— 
he wondered if she was going to have a good time. 
She was talking to her partner at a great rate. 
Jimmy always had a way of bringing Dora out. 


THE QUITTER 


23 


Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and turning, 
looked into the face of Don Walden, his old college 
chum. 

“Craigie, old boy, aren’t you enjoying it?” said 
Don. “To tell the truth, I don’t take an awful lot 
of interest in this Turkey Trotting stuff myself; 
strikes me as a bit vulgar. What is it, but a chance 
for a man and woman to squeeze each other in 
public?” 

Craig laughed. “I’ve never thought of it that way. 
I don’t see anything wrong; only wish, at a time like 
this, that I was a better dancer.” 

“You’re falling like all the rest. Of course I dance 
a bit myself, but I don’t exactly approve!” 

“Then why do you do it?” 

Don shrugged his shoulders. “Why does any¬ 
body . . . The girls like it; where’s Dora?” 

“Dancing with Jimmy Marchmand.” 

“Oh, she is, is she; well, I’m going to break that up. 
So long, see you later.” 

Impulsive Don, thought Craig, inconsistent Don. 

The music ceased for a moment and he found him¬ 
self talking to Grace Marchmand. He liked Grace, 
she was the right sort, she did things and did them 
well. When again the sounds of the orchestra floated 
from the other end of the room, he asked her to dance. 

“I’m pretty sad at the new steps,” he apologized. 


24 


THE QUITTER 


‘‘Why you aren’t at all,” she assured him. ‘T 
think you do very well; don’t you like dancing?” 

He did not have a chance to answer her, for just 
then they bumped into another couple and with 
difficulty he disengaged himself from a small jam. He 
was not a good leader and was relieved when the 
musicians stopped playing and they joined a group 
in the sun parlor. 

As the evening wore on, he danced two or three 
more dances and his confidence in himself increased. 
Along toward the end, when husbands were having 
one dance with their wives, he took Dora for a part¬ 
ner. She nestled very close. 

“You’re doing ever so much better,” she told him, 
“only please don’t hold my arm so high and put your 
hand further down on my back; there, that’s fine. 
For goodness’ sake, now try to keep time with the 
music!” 

“Have you enjoyed yourself?” 

She smiled up at him. “Have you?” 

“Yes; we must go out like this often. We’ll get 
rusty if we don’t.” 

In silence they swung along for awhile, then she 
said, “I telephoned home, baby is all right.” 

He snickered. “You telephoned! Why, we only 
left there a couple of hours ago.” 

“I know, but I got to thinking about him and I 


THE QUITTER 


25 


just had to find out. He’s been sleeping all evening, 
Aunt Agatha said.” 

“Of course he’s been asleep, he never really starts 
to cry until we go to bed, does he ?” 

It was an unfortunate remark, his wife’s eyes blazed 
a moment; just then Don cut in. 

“That will be about all of this husband and wife 
stuff,” he called over his shoulder. 

Craig wandered off, and found Jimmy in the library. 
They smoked a cigar together. 

“I don’t mind telling you I’m dead,” Marchmand 
said. “Awful thing, you know, for a host at a dance 
to sit around and smoke with the men but I had to 
get a rest. Think it’s been a good party?” 

“I’ve had a bully time,” Craig said with perfect 
sincerity, “and I know that Dora has, too.” 

Jimmy smiled. “Yes, the women, they are all 
strong for this sort of thing, but I do get dead tired 
when the clock strikes one. I suppose that they, in 
there,” waving his arm toward the drawing room, 
“could keep it up until daylight. Funny thing, Grace, 
she lives on it; after all, it keeps us young, we’ll all 
be dead a long time.” 

Craig glanced at his watch. “I think we will have 
to be going.” 

“So long, old fellow,” Jimmy yawned. “Pardon 
my not getting up.” 


26 


THE QUITTER 


In the hall he met Dora, ready to go home. 
“Oh, there you are!” she called from the top of 
the stairs. “Come along, I’ve been looking all over 
for you.” 


VI 

It was after two o’clock when they reached home. 

“Goodness,” Dora moaned, “how my feet hurt! 
I haven’t danced like that in years!” 

“I’m a bit weary myself, but I had a good time. 
Jimmy and Grace know how to entertain. Now that 
I’m here, I wish we had stayed longer.” 

“Well, we had to leave. You know Freddy’s early 
morning bottle. We couldn’t very well ask Aunty to 
stay up for that, could we ?” 

But the young son and heir was ready long before 
the appointed time and he awoke with a sad crimp 
in his small disposition. The bottle didn’t pacify 
him as he screamed with pain or temper or both; 
apparently he wanted his parents to realize that he 
very much resented their leaving him alone for the 
whole evening. 

“It’s colic, that’s what it is,” Dora announced. 
“Get me that bottle of Aniseed Cordial in the medicine 
closet; no, wait a minute; here, take him while I mix 
it.” 

Craig walked the floor, wondering dimly if all 


THE QUITTER 


27 


fathers and mothers went through these experiences. 
Everything seemed so hopeless when Freddy had one 
of his crying spells. Argument was of no avail, you 
can’t argue with a baby a few months old. Dora al¬ 
ways lost her head, was ill-tempered, unreasonable; 
why, oh why, did he go on so? 

“He’s in pain,” she said, “it must be awful bad to 
make him take on like this. I wonder if the milk for¬ 
mula is wrong again.” 

“Don’t you always mix it yourself, now?” Craig 
snapped. 

“Why of course I do and I can’t think what’s 
wrong.” 

“If you ask me, I’d say it was just plain temper.” 

“You ought to be ashamed; how can you say such 
a thing!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, only I do wish 
he would go to sleep. Of all the nights for him to 
give us a seance like this, when I’m so dead beat out, 
too.” 

“Well, do you think that you’re the only one who 
is tired?” she blazed. 

“Can’t we take him in to Delia?” 

“You know we can’t, but if you’re so very weary, 
so weak that you can’t stand it any longer, you can 
go down in the library and try the couch.” Her eyes 
were full of tears. 


28 


THE QUITTER 


“Can’t you see that this is all wrong of us,” Craig 
said, appealingly. “It’s bad enough to have him howl¬ 
ing without our squabbling too.” 

She choked down a sob. “It’s all on account of 
our going out. Children are terribly sensitive, they 
feel these things more than we think and Freddy’s 
much too young for me to leave. We shouldn’t have 
gone, I felt it all along and I only went because I 
thought you would be disappointed.” 

“But didn’t Aunt Agatha say, when you telephoned, 
that he had slept all evening. How could he tell that 
you weren’t here? That’s absurd, it’s absolutely 
illogical!” 

“It may not be logical, but it’s true all the same. 
Hush, he’s dropping off.” She tip-toed over to the 
crib. “He’s asleep,” she whispered. 

“Thank God!” muttered Craig. 

His wife threw her arms around his neck. “Don’t 
be cross, dear.” 

He kissed her, his mind roving to Delia, fat thing, 
comfortably sleeping; but he kept those thoughts to 
himself. 


CHAPTER III 


That winter was unusually severe, lingering long 
into the spring; snow flurries late in March and over 
into April, cloudy days with cold nights, sleety rains, 
miserable weather. Walking home through the park 
Craig wondered when it would change, when the warm 
sun would shine again. A chill wind swept down from 
the north, bringing with it the breath of arctic regions. 
His ulster buttoned tight about his throat, he breasted a 
whistling gale. 

All during their married life, it had been his custom, 
whenever the weather permitted, to indulge in these 
afternoon walks in the park, leaving the train at one of 
the stations just on the outskirts of the city. Dora 
usually met him and together they would stroll along, 
he, talking to her of the problems of his business day, 
she, giving him news of their household or bits of 
gossip about their suburban community. Tonight he 
was alone and, since the coming of the baby, that was 
quite the usual thing. 

Under foot, the ground was sodden, patches of dirty 
snow lay rotting in the shade of the evergreen thickets, 
maple trees, scarce coming into bud, stood stark against 
29 


30 


THE QUITTER 


a gray sky. Around the lake the willows, skirting the 
shore, were the only touch of green in an otherwise 
dreary landscape. Yet somehow through it all, there 
was in the air, a promise of something better to come 
when the wind lulled for a moment and a certain soft¬ 
ness, a smell of fresh earth, filled his nostrils. 

By old familiar landmarks he swung, past the 
bench where they had sat the day she told him they 
were to be blessed with a child; years ago, it seemed 
now. Happy day, how well he remembered his feeling 
of exaltation, his desire to hug her close to him. He 
saw again her eyes shining with a light in their depths 
that he had never seen there before. How they had 
planned during those months of waiting; their off¬ 
spring, he was to be a wonder child, a paragon. And 
now why had all things changed so, why did she take 
this motherhood business so hard, so seriously ? Other 
women he knew had delicate children; babies were not 
all like young Hercules, but mothers did not have to 
sit around and worry the day through. Wasn’t life 
something more than just tending infants? What 
were nurses for, anyhow? With plenty of money, 
why did Dora do everything herself? And he had 
money. Not millions. No, but enough and his 
prospects were widening; all things were possible, and 
she, just a nursemaid. It was maddening. Some¬ 
thing had happened to her that day the baby was born, 


THE QUITTER 


3 1 


for she had never been the same since. He couldn’t 
talk with her as of old. There was no barrier be¬ 
tween them, but try as he would, he could never quite 
analyze the feeling. He wondered if she knew as 
much about babies as she professed. Was she really 
doing well by their boy? Men knew something, but 
she never gave him a chance where Freddy was con¬ 
cerned. She didn’t systematize things any more, she 
had lost her grip and seemed to be drifting like a 
ship that has lost its rudder. And what could he do 
about it . . . wasted arguments, futile words; he 
wasn’t supposed to know about such things. “How 
can you talk so?” Dora would say. “A man doesn’t 
understand. You can’t run a nursery like you manage 
an office. How can you sense a mother’s feelings? 
He’s my life blood and I’ll do the thing my intuition 
tells me to do.” Woman’s intuition, who could legis¬ 
late that ? 

He bent his head to the wind, his mind a tumult. 
She had planned to meet him tonight, to walk home as 
in those other days. Where was that old Dora who 
used to welcome him to his home; where the smiling 
face of his young wife, and dinner, just for two . . .? 
And now, gray fatigue on that face he loved so 
well, whispers, looks of anguish and the evening meal 
eaten generally by himself, while she stayed upstairs 
until Freddy went to sleep. “Why can’t we wait and 


32 


THE QUITTER 


dine together after he goes off, as you call it?” he 
had asked her one evening. 

“Can’t you comprehend? Sometimes I think you 
don’t want to understand; the servants, it would make 
everything late if we did it that way.” But he couldn’t 
see the logic of that argument, as he failed to see the 
sense of many others. 

He felt years older. The cares of his office life 
were weighing on him. In those earlier years they had 
been brushed away like mist before the sun, but now he 
carried them home, nursing them in solitude; she was 
always too tired, too weary to listen to his troubles. 

In spite of all, however, down in his heart, he felt 
that it was all only some temporary thing. Freddy 
would grow up and his wife would be again the little 
girl he had won at Miss Meiggs’ School. She would 
come back to him, he knew, and, as he approached 
the house, he felt almost gay. The sun broke through 
dense cloud banks; spring was coming and summer not 
far away. They would go off somewhere in the coun¬ 
try .. . Dora would wear one of those filmy, in¬ 
definable frocks. She hadn’t really changed. This 
gloom would all sweep away. Damn the long winter, 
it sapped one’s vitality. With the coming of warmer 
weather, everything would look different. 

But at his curbstone stood the doctor’s little electric 
and his heart sank at the sight. Something unusual 


THE QUITTER 


33 


must have happened, he never came down from the city 
as late as this. Craig took the three steps of the piazza 
at one bound, putting his key into the lock just as Dean 
turned the knob on the inside, and so they met in the 
doorway. 

‘‘Anything the matter, doctor ?” the young man asked 
anxiously. 

“Your wife telephoned me to come out,” he said 
somewhat coldly. “The boy is not gaining just as we 
should like to have him, but he’s a tiny mite, Mr. Hal¬ 
lowed, and we can’t expect miracles.” 

“But it’s not serious, is it?” 

“Serious, no, not exactly. He’s suffering from mal¬ 
nutrition and needs lots of expert care. The coming 
summer may be hard on him.” Then with a quizzical 
look in his gray eyes, “Mrs. Hallowed worries a great 
deal, doesn’t she?” 

“Of course she does and I don’t suppose that under 
the circumstances it’s unusual.” 

“No, it’s natural enough, but she ought to take hold 
of herself. Of course, not nursing him, her attitude 
can’t have any very bad effect on the child; still, on the 
other hand, it doesn’t do him any good, in fact, it may 
work positive harm; youngsters feel these things more 
than we realize.” 

Craig was thoughtful a moment. “Have you ever 
spoken to her about it ?” he asked. 


34 


THE QUITTER 


“Yes, I’ve mentioned it. Wonder if perhaps you 
couldn’t talk with her . . 

They looked at each other in silence a moment, then, 
“Damn it, I have,” Craig blurted out, “but it doesn’t 
seem to do a bit of good.” His face grew red. 

Dean put a hand on his shoulder. “I beg your par¬ 
don, I didn’t mean to be rude, but you know I’m con¬ 
siderably older than you and have had a lot of ex¬ 
perience in dealing with nervous women. Mrs. Hallo- 
well is no glaring exception. There are many cases 
like hers and a man handling them has to exercise a lot 
of patience. Try to be more persuasive, wheedling; 
don’t go at it hammer and tongs, it never accomplishes 
anything.” And picking up his hat, “I must be off 
now, I’m late as it is. Things are going to come out 
all right, don’t worry.” 

The door closed behind him with a sharp click. Of 
all the consummate nerve, thought Craig. So he 
didn’t know how to handle his own wife. “Perhaps 
you don’t go at it in the right way.” Hang his impu¬ 
dence anyhow. These doctors, they were all alike, 
knew so much. Well . . . 

ii 

Dora was upset, he found her in their bedroom, cry¬ 
ing softly and it made him rage inwardly. He blamed 
Dean now, that suave man who thought he knew so 


THE QUITTER 


35 


much about every last thing in the world, but who 
couldn’t seem to get very far when it came to handling 
their baby. Malnutrition, simple thing. All that was 
necessary was to give the kid the proper sort of food. 
Why couldn’t the doctor discover the right food, what 
good was he anyhow ? 

“Now don’t go on so,” Craig soothed. “It isn’t go¬ 
ing to do anybody a bit of good and it busts you all 
up. What did he say that put you in this shape ?” 

His wife raised a tear-stained face. “Say? He 
didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. I know that 
Freddy will never live to grow up, he’s losing every 
day. He lost two ounces last week.” 

“Two ounces, that doesn’t seem like a tragedy to me. 
I wouldn’t worry over such a little thing if I were you.” 

“It isn’t a little thing, it’s a very vital one. He can’t 
go on like this much longer, it’s pitiful. He cries all 
the time, my heart aches for him.” 

“Of course it does,” he agreed. “I can well under¬ 
stand that and it’s plain to my mind that there’s only 
one thing for us to do.” 

At that she sat up suddenly, looking at him with 
startled eyes. “What do you mean?” 

“Just this; Dean has outlived his usefulness for us 
and we’ve got to call in another man.” 

“But I hate to do it.” 

“That’s nonsense. He isn’t a baby doctor, never 


36 


THE QUITTER 


was; he is really more of a surgeon. What we need 
here is a specialist. Please let me handle this thing, 
will you?” There was a note of pleading in his voice. 

“But what will he say? He’s been awfully good 
about everything.” 

“You know what I think he’ll say? ‘Thank good¬ 
ness,’ that’s what he’ll say and be darned glad to get 
rid of the case.” 

“I wish I was as certain of that as you seem to be,” 
Dora murmured brokenly. 

He felt sure of himself now, he would triumph in 
this thing yet! 

Late that same evening, seated on the big divan in 
the library, they were discussing the matter again. 

“Perhaps you are right,” Dora agreed. “Dean may 
not be the right man, but I can’t bear the thought of 
dismissing him.” 

“You won’t have to, dear. I told you that I would 
attend to it, if you’d only let me.” 

“I feel awfully helpless, Craig, but you know I do 
the best I can.” 

“Of course you do,” putting his arm about her. 
“You’re the best little mother in all the world and 
when Freddy is grown up and a big fellow at college, 
we’ll laugh at this.” 

She made no reply, nestling softly in the hollow of 


THE QUITTER 


37 

his arm. He felt very happy, she seemed, somehow, 
more like her old self tonight. 

“Let’s make a compact,” he told her, “an agreement 
to stop worrying.” 

“I’ll agree. What do you propose to do?” 

“I’m going to telephone Dean and tell him that we 
aren’t a bit satisfied with things and that we intend to 
call in a baby specialist and what’s more, I think I will 
do it right now.” 

“Oh, but suppose . . .” Dora began, clinging to him. 

He stooped and kissed her. “Now, none of that. 
Didn’t you say that you were going to let me handle 
this situation?” 

She released him, sinking back on the divan with a 
little sigh. 

The doctor’s dignified voice answered Craig’s ring. 
Why yes, he understood, it was perfectly all right: he 
had thought of doing something of the kind himself 
if conditions did not improve. No hard feeling, ab¬ 
surd, of course not; any time that he could be of ser¬ 
vice he would be glad to be called upon. 

“There, what did I tell you?” Craig said, hanging 
up the receiver. “He’s the most thoroughly relieved 
man in the city and he gave me the name of a specialist, 
too.” 

“I wish that I could do things the way you do,” she 
sighed. “You must think me a pretty poor sort.” 


38 


THE QUITTER 


“Nonsense, darling, it’s a man’s place to handle mat¬ 
ters of this kind. I’m always ready, only sometimes 
you won’t let me, you know.” And he finished the 
evening by making an appointment for the specialist 
to call the next* day. 

The new doctor made radical changes, but his judg¬ 
ment proved correct, for Freddy began to thrive 
immediately. 

“He’s gaining steadily now,” said Dora. “He 
sleeps wonderfully, nearly all day, and doesn’t he look 
ever so much better?” 

Craig, gazing down at the baby face, wondered if 
Freddy, when he grew up, would be as emotional as 
his mother. Bless his little heart, he certainly did show 
improvement. He was going to be a young Hercules 
yet. 


CHAPTER IV 


Don Walden called Craig up at the office. “Big 
time at the Athletic Club tomorrow night,” he said. 
“I want you to come down, they’re going to stage a 
couple of good bouts, I think you’d enjoy it.” 

Craig questioned a moment. 

“Oh pshaw, you poor old married thing. Your 
wife will let you go out with me. Hardly see any¬ 
thing of you these days. Meet me at the club about 
seven and we’ll have dinner there. I’ll phone Dora if 
you want me to and tell her you’ll be a good boy.” 

‘‘You needn’t do that, I’ll come all right.” 

“Fine, darn glad to see you! Give Dora my best.” 

All through a long afternoon, Craig pondered, 
“Poor old married thing.” Wasn’t that just like Don? 
It was a long, long time since they had been out to¬ 
gether of an evening. Pie wondered how his wife 
would take to the idea. Dora still persisted in being 
a little house mouse, though the baby was in splendid 
shape and things looked ever so much brighter. She 
took no interest in outside affairs any more and he had 
grown so accustomed to staying home evenings, that 
he had almost ceased to think about it. Once in a 
while some of their neighbors came over to play cards, 
39 


40 


THE QUITTER 


but even that mild diversion was seldom indulged in. 
Their whole life revolved about Freddy. 

At breakfast that morning, his wife had said that she 
would probably meet him in the late afternoon and walk 
home through the park, so he closed his desk earlier 
than usual. Would she be there? So often she had 
promised and then at the last moment something had 
prevented her coming. He was prepared for another 
disappointment. 

But as the train came out of the deep cut and pulled 
into the station, he saw her standing on the bridge 
which spanned the track. She waved at him, her trim 
little figure looking almost child-like. He ran up the 
steps to the street level and met her. 

“I’m glad you came, Do. Isn’t it a perfect 
afternoon?” 

It was the first real warm day and the sun shone 
on trees, gay in new leafage of brilliant green. The 
air radiated color. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time,” she told him. 
“Your train was late, wasn’t it?” 

“I guess it wasn’t very hard to wait with such a 
sight to look upon. Did you ever see anything so 
beautiful?” and he waved his arm toward the entrance 
to the park, where the tulip beds spread out in rainbow 
tints of reds and yellows. She ignored his remark 
and they started walking. 


THE QUITTER 


4i 


“Freddy was so cute today, you should have seen 
him. Delia and I nearly had hysterics, he took his 
morning bottle like a little pig.” 

“Of course he did and you just wait, six months 
from now he will be more piggish. All he needed was 
time to get started.” 

Through sweetly scented air they strolled in silence 
for a time. 

“Don Walden called me up this morning,” Craig 
said, affecting a careless air, “he wants me to go to the 
Athletic Club tomorrow night and have dinner with 
him.” 

“Of course you’re going.” 

“Why yes. That is if you don’t mind being left 
alone. I’m not so keen. I told him at first that I 
didn’t think I’d better accept, but he’ll never take ‘no’ 
for an answer. Can’t you get somebody to come and 
play bridge with you ?” 

“Silly—I would rather be alone. I don’t care in the 
least.” 

“Well, I’m glad, it ought to be an interesting eve¬ 
ning. They’re going to have a couple of boxing bouts 
and . . ” 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to a prize fight!” 

In detail he explained to her the difference between 
boxing and prize fighting, but when he had finished, he 
could see that she was unconvinced. 


42 THE QUITTER 

“Why does Don want you to go to a thing like 
that?” she asked. 

“Oh, they have them once a month at the club,” he 
said lightly. “Some of the best men in the city go 
there: lawyers, doctors, big people, they all go; boxing 
is very scientific.” 

“Well, it may be scientific, but it’s brutal just the 
same.” 

“Why no, it isn’t; the fellows who do it are all well 
trained. . . .” 

“How would you like to have our son grow to 
manhood and go to prize fights ?” 

“It isn’t prize fighting,” he insisted, “it’s boxing 
and not the same thing at all. I wouldn’t object one 
bit if Freddy, when he gets older, wanted to go. It’s 
perfectly natural for boys and men to be interested in 
such things.” 

“It’s bestial and you can’t make it out anything else,” 
she said firmly. 

He was silent, realizing that it was foolish to carry 
the argument further; deftly he changed the subject. 
Darkness overtook them before they reached the house. 

ii 

Next morning he was out of sorts. When he left 
to go to his office, Dora bidding him goodbye, told him 
to have a good time with Don. 


THE QUITTER 


43 


Don’t you think about me for one minute,” she 
said. Somehow her voice did not carry conviction. 

All day long things harassed him. Nothing ran 
smoothly, it was as if some jinx had taken hold of his 
organization. 

Late in the afternoon he telephoned to his wife. 
Was the baby all right, how was she feeling? 

Over the wire her voice came back: “Why of 
course I’m all right, what did you expect?” 

He assured her that he would not stay late at the 
club, he might leave directly after dinner if he could 
get away gracefully. 

“That’s absurd,” she told him. “Go and see your 
prize fight. You’ll probably be very much interested 
in it and spend a pleasant evening with Don and his 
crowd.” 

He left the telephone with a sigh, almost wishing 
that Walden had never asked him. Dora was so darn 
peculiar about these things. It would have been easier 
almost, if she had out and out opposed it from the be¬ 
ginning; because now he didn’t really know how she 
felt and what a little thing it was to make such pother 
over. Other men went to their clubs three nights out 
of the week and their wives did not seem to care. He 
had been too easy with her. That was it. She had a 
way of taking things, agreeing with him and yet not 
agreeing, and it made him thoroughly angry with him- 


44 


THE QUITTER 


self to find that his conscience smote him a little. She 
was at home all alone, but why should he be expected to 
spend the rest of his life like an old fogy! It was ri¬ 
diculous, preposterous and the sooner she changed her 
attitude, the better; a man had to have some diversion. 

An hour later he was seated at the round table with 
Don and some others whom he had not seen for months. 

“It takes the promise of a good fight to bring out 
these old married sports,” Don said, and they all 
laughed. 

The meal was lively. Craig had a few cocktails, life 
wasn’t so bad after all. He was very glad that he had 
come. 

Reminiscing of college days, Don flung a loving arm 
around his shoulder. “Remember that night, Craigie, 
the time you went into the theater and broke up the 
show? What a lot of crazy loons we were in those 
days. Lord, to look at you now, with your old serious 
face, nobody would believe that you had ever pulled 
off such stunts.” 

Somebody called from the other side of the table. 
“Here’s to Old Serious Face, ’rah for Old Serious 
Face!” It was the beginning of a large evening. 

The bouts were to be staged in the gymnasium on 
the top floor of the building and thither they wended 
their way shortly after nine o’clock. A squared ring 
occupied the center of the room and banked up around 


THE QUITTER 


45 


it, a solid mass, were rows and rows of seats. The 
place was blue with tobacco smoke, every chair was 
taken. 

“The committee knows how to handle these affairs,” 
Don said. “There isn’t a club anywhere that can pull 
it off better.” 

Craig gazed down at the sight from his seat near 
the top row. Things looked a bit hazy, but very in¬ 
teresting. One of his pals from the round table spied 
him and waved across the arena. 

“ ’Lo, ’lo there, Old Serious Face!” And he made 
an elaborate salute. 

The air was tense now, full of suppressed excite¬ 
ment. The first bouts didn’t amount to much, a 
couple of youngsters to whet the appetite for what 
was to follow. 

“These preliminaries are always slow,” Walden con¬ 
fided. “But the big mill is coming.” 

Sure enough, after the kids had pounded each other 
tired, the ring was cleared for the event of the evening. 
A policeman, at least somebody said he was a police¬ 
man, matched against a youth who looked like a Greek 
god. The guardian of the law was a lanky individual, 
with shoulder blades that flapped like the wings of a 
butterfly. His antagonist’s muscles slowly rippling un¬ 
der a taut skin might have been carved from marble. 

“The skinny guy’ll knock the life out of that tal- 


46 


THE QUITTER 


cumed baby,” the man on Craig’s left told him. “You 
just wait and see what happens.” 

Hallowed did not agree with him and promptly told 
him so. 

“Well,” his neighbor asked him, “what do you want 
to put up? I’ve got a five spot that says the copper’ll 
win, straight pickin’s, no odds: what do you say?” 

Craig confessed that he knew nothing of the merits 
of either man. “But come on,” he said, “I’ll take a 
chance.” Walden agreed to hold the stakes and the 
fight began. 

The first round was any man’s, but at the beginning 
of the second, the human windmill went into action. 

“What did I tell you!” yelled the man on the left. 
“Shake him, boy, stick to him, lambast him!” 

The round ended with the advantage all in the po¬ 
liceman’s favor. 

Through the noise and the hubbub Craig thought 
that he heard his name called, but he couldn’t place 
where the sound came from and as the next round 
started, he almost fell from his chair, his champion 
had landed a neat one, full on the point of his adver¬ 
sary’s jaw. The copper staggered for an instant and 
in that instant the “talcum baby” lost the fight, for in¬ 
stead of following up his advantage, he seemed dazed 
by what had happened. The crowd yelled, screamed, 
pandemonium broke loose and then with the swiftness 


THE QUITTER 


47 


of light, a blow landed and the Greek god went down 
in a heap from a steam engine wallop that would have 
felled a horse; the clever old windmill had only been 
stalling for an opening. The fight was over. 

“That copper guy’s forty years old,” Craig’s neigh¬ 
bor yelled in his ear, as he pocketed his fiver. “I’ve 
seen him fight before. A fellow like that sweet baby 
hasn’t a chance against an old hand like him.” 

Downstairs in the grill the party continued. 

“Mr. Hallowed on the phone,” said a boy walking 
through the room. “Hallowell, Hallowed!” 

“It’s your wife, Old Serious Face,” shouted the man 
across the table. 

Craig smiled. “Do you think you can pud anything 
like that on me? Run along, boy, that’s an old joke.” 

The boy grinned. “Cad for you, sir.” 

Craig waved him away. “Go along, go along, don’t 
bother me.” 

The man across the table chimed in again: “Goo’ 
boy, Old Serious Face, don’ care what he does.” 

Not in years had Craig felt as young, care-free, 
light in spirit as he was tonight. He was enjoying 
himself thoroughly. He felt the heaviness of his dig¬ 
nity slipping away from him and in its place sensed a 
feeling of abandon which was unusual. It was good 
to get out like this once in a while, leaving his own 
fireside for an evening. Somebody started throwing 


48 THE QUITTER 

dice and soon the whole table was absorbed in the game. 

Don Walden slapped him on the back. “You’re 
a lucky beggar, make as much money here as you can 
over on Park Row. How about it?” 

Craig scooped in the pot. 

And so for a while the clicking of the bones con¬ 
tinued, broken in upon every few moments by loud 
shouts as some one of the players gathered an un¬ 
usual haul. Tobacco smoke in a thick haze floating 
slowly toward the ceiling, the electric lights dimmed as 
by a heavy fog, Craig looked at his watch, it was one 
o’clock. He turned to Don. 

“I’ve got to get along, I didn’t realize it was so late.” 

Walden laughed up at him, “You’ve done pretty well 
for an old married man.” 

“It was just bully,” Craig assured him, “I don’t 
know when I’ve had a better time. Quite a change 
for me, this sort of thing.” 

“Don’t stick in the house all the time,” Don advised. 
“You’re spoiling Dora. Women don’t like a man who 
is always kicking around under their feet. Get away 
whenever you can, it gives them something to think 
about, keeps ’em interested.” 

“A lot you know about women. Where did you 
get all those ideas?” 

“I know a good deal more than you give me credit 
for; we bachelors get a pretty accurate line on the mar- 


THE QUITTER 


49 


ried state. Our friends in harness, under the yoke, 
give us plenty of chances for observation and study.” 

“Sounds like a clinical report. You talk, Don, as 
though you thought marriage a mistake and yet I’ll 
bet that deep down in your sinful old heart, you’d give 
a lot to have a wife and home of your own.” 

“Yes, sometimes I do feel that way and then, oh 
well, I wasn’t made for marriage, too fond of having 
my own way, need a lot of freedom, room to expand, 
and besides, what girl would want me anyhow? I’m 
selfish, much too self-centered to live the give and take 
life of marriage.” 

Craig pushed back his chair and rose to go. 

Don shook his hand, “So long, old boy, remember 
me to Dora. I’m coming down to see you soon. . . .” 

“You’ve made that promise so many times you really 
believe it now, don’t you?” 

“But I am coming, sure,” Don called over his 
shoulder. 

Craig got his coat in the checkroom and passed out 
into the street. The cool night air striking his face 
seemed grateful after the stuffy heat indoors. What 
a bully evening it had been, he had enjoyed it more 
than he thought possible and only that afternoon he 
would have given the whole thing up on slight provo¬ 
cation. How far he had traveled since those days at 
college. “Old Serious Face!” Was he getting old and 


50 


THE QUITTER 


serious? Life for him now was a problem, and yet 
how much better off he was than Don, for instance, 
with all his much vaunted freedom. What did it 
amount to, a bachelor, a cynic, the words were synony¬ 
mous. “No, give me marriage every time,” he said 
to himself . . . He did not let his thoughts wander 
any further in that direction. 

Why couldn’t Dora laugh the way she used to ? He 
remembered how her lips would curl and those little 
dimples at the corners of her mouth. When had he 
seen her like that? Somehow at the moment he felt 
supremely happy and he suddenly realized that not in 
years had he taken so much strong drink. Funny thing 
about it, too, it hadn’t seemed to affect him at all, he 
was glad that he had taken a lot. His feet were not 
unsteady, he hadn’t had enough to make him really 
drunk, no, not that much, but, well—it was a fine night 
to be out. 

The trip in the train seemed interminable, much 
longer than ever before. He almost went to sleep, and, 
as the guard called his station, roused himself with an 
effort. 

As he approached his house it was in utter darkness. 
When he put his key in the lock, the light in the hall 
flashed up. Dora must have snapped the switch on 
the second floor landing. 

“Craig, is that you?” he heard her say in a half whis- 


THE QUITTER 


5i 

per. “Em so glad you are home. You got my 
message ?” 

He sat down suddenly on a convenient chair. “Mes¬ 
sage, what message?” And then it dawned upon him. 
So she had telephoned the club after all; and it wasn’t a 
joke. 

“I didn’t know you called up,” he stammered, “I’m 
awfully sorry. You see, a boy told me that some¬ 
body wanted me on the telephone, but the fellows were 
fooling so at the time I thought it was a joke. They 
were ...” 

“You don’t mean to tell me you didn’t even take 
the trouble to find out! Here I’ve spent a hectic eve¬ 
ning trying to get you and now you come home at this 
hour with such a story.” 

“Oh Lord, I’m sorry, dear, what was the trouble?” 

Slowly she descended the stairs, a pink negligee 
thrown over her thin nightgown. At the bottom 
step she paused and sat down. Her lip trembled, 
tears were in her eyes. 

Craig went over to her, folding her in his arms. 
“What was the matter, tell me about it.” 

“You didn’t even bother to find out who it was,” 
she said slowly. “Freddy and I might have been 
burning up here, for all you cared.” 

“But don’t you understand ?” he urged. “Everybody 
was fooling, having a good time. Why I was sure 


52 


THE QUITTER 


they had worked it up, just to plague me. You 
haven’t told me yet why you phoned. Is the baby 
sick?” There was a tinge of bitterness in his tone. 

Dora bit her lip. “No, Freddy’s all right. It 
was Ridgeway at the mill, an accident. He sent word 
he wanted you, but—well, I got your superintendent 
finally. He said he’d fix things up. Oh, how could 
you be so thoughtless!” 

“What can I say? I’m terribly sorry to think that 
you had all this worry, while I was having such a 
good time.” 

She was crying now, crying hard, and it made his 
heart burn with remorse. 

“Don’t, Do,” he urged, “don’t go on like this. I 
was a fool and I’ll never forgive myself.” 

“I thought that I could trust you,” she sobbed. 

“Well,” he flared up, “you can trust me, you know 
you can. Don’t take on so about a little thing . . .” 

She sat up straight, drying her eyes. “Little thing, 
I’m glad to know that you think it’s a little thing 
for me to be here worried and harassed! If you 
were not under the influence of liquor, you—well, 
what’s the use of talking to anyone in your condition? 
Come on to bed.” 

“But, darling, I’m not under the influence of liquor,” 
he assured her, “and I don’t like you to think so. 

I had a few drinks, but . . 


THE QUITTER 


53 


“Then there’s less excuse for you than I thought,” 
she said frigidly. “I'm very tired and I'm going to 
bed.” 

“Dora,” he pleaded as they slowly mounted the 
stairs, “don’t let’s leave it this way, I can’t bear it.” 

She was weeping again. 

He put his arm about her waist. “You know I 
would do anything in the world for you, don’t you, 
Do?” 

“Please don’t do that,” she said, throwing him aside. 

“Aren’t you going to forgive me? Say you will 
forgive me. I’m awfully cut up about this, honestly 
I am.” His voice was husky. 

“I don’t want to discuss it with you any more 
tonight,” she told him flatly. “I said I was going to 
bed and I’m going” 

Wide awake, he lay staring at the ceiling. It was 
unreasonable in her to take on so over a trivial matter. 
What queer minds women had, so many little things 
seemed to make up life for them. Why couldn’t she 
see his point of view? It was all very simple. If 
she only wouldn’t make everything so darn vital. 
“Old Serious Face!” He smiled to himself. Oh, well 
why worry, it would probably look quite different 
to her in the morning! 


CHAPTER V 


June found them snugly settled in a bungalow on 
the shore of Long Island and there began a peaceful 
life. The salt breezes sweeping in from the ocean 
were a wonderful tonic and young Freddy slept as he 
had never slept before. 

Their house, an old fisherman’s cottage, furbished 
up and furnished by a wandering artist, who leaving 
suddenly for a sojourn in Paris had rented it for 
the summer, was a dot of a place, nestled in the dunes. 
From the very door sill a sandy beach sloped down 
to the water. A broad veranda, screened against the 
inroads of flying pests, ran across the front of the 
house and there of an evening Craig would sit with 
Dora, watching the play of moonlight on dark waters. 

Every morning the ancient, rickety stage called 
and took him to the station. He soon got used to 
the life of a long distance commuter and the breath 
of fresh air which greeted him on his return from 
the iron-bound heat of town was worth miles of 
travel. Dora, too, he had never seen in better 
spirits. She gloried in the freedom of the life and 
54 


THE QUITTER 


55 

with the baby doing so well, things took on a different 
aspect. Housekeeping was reduced to its simplest 
form. Neighbors were few, but they cared little 
about that. 

On Saturdays, Craig stayed down. He rented a 
small cat-boat, spending most of his time on the water. 

“You just love to fuss with this old boat, don’t you ?” 
Dora said and he nodded his head in assent, his arms 
strained at the tiller. “I didn’t know that you were 
such an expert,” she went on. “You never told me 
that you could sail a boat. Let me take a hand.” 

They changed places. 

“Careful now,” he advised, “this is a pretty stiff 
wind.” 

Hair blowing back, her face set toward the bow, 
she sat at the helm, hands clasped firmly on the steer¬ 
ing mechanism. The little boat shot along through 
the waves and suddenly she brought it head on into 
a big sea, which climbed over the bow, thoroughly 
drenching them both. 

“Here, here!” expostulated Craig. “We can’t have 
that. Better give her to me.” 

She laughed. “It’s glorious, I love it.” 

“It may be glorious, but we’ll get mighty wet if you 
keep on.” Dexterously he brought the boat about 
and, with slackened sheet, they steered for home. 


56 


THE QUITTER 


In the west a soft glow spread over the horizon 
and it was almost dark when they had reached their 
mooring. 

At the cottage young Freddy lay sleeping soundly. 

“He’s stronger than he used to be, isn’t he?” said 
Dora as they bent over the crib. “This place is heaven 
for him.” 

Supper by candle light and the evening spent on 
the tiny piazza. 

“You know I’m terribly sleepy,” Craig announced, 
striking a match and glancing at his watch. “It’s only 
nine o’clock. Absurd to be so yawny. This air is 
wonderful. Think of all the poor devils in the steam¬ 
ing city.” 

Dora put her arms about his neck. “We’re aw¬ 
fully happy, aren’t we?” 


il 

It was pleasant enough, that ride to town, through 
a smiling country, all tilled fields and flat green 
meadow lands. He found time to do considerable 
reading too. First, the morning paper, which came 
down from the city on the early train. Then finishing 
with that, he would turn to some book which he al¬ 
ways carried with him. Though it consumed over an 
hour and a half, it seemed a short trip and almost be- 


THE QUITTER 


57 


fore he realized it, he would be back in the teeming 
city, over his desk, plunged in the work of the day. 
Bay Crest seemed like a lovely dream and, gazing from 
his office window, high up above the street, he would 
look out across the sea of roofs and in his mind’s eye, 
visualize the bay all sparkling in the sun, his wife on 
the little veranda, Freddy asleep in his carriage. 
Lunch time, a vortex of heat in the stuffy streets, then 
an afternoon of work and the five fifteen back to the 
country. 

As soon as the train skirted the shore one could 
sense the difference. Strong salt air, blowing in at 
the open windows, a light freshness over everything, 
then a long whistle, while they glided into the station, 
Johnny Mervin waiting with his patient old horse, a 
leisurely ride down tree bordered lanes, a plunge in 
the cool waters of the bay. It was quite a bit of para¬ 
dise, this sharp transition from city noise and dust 
to the coolness and quiet of the country. And thus 
the days slipped by. 


hi 

“Let’s ask Don down over the Fourth of July,” 
Craig said to his wife one evening. “He’d love it 
here, he’s crazy about sailing.” 

She puzzled a moment. “Do you think that such 
a gay bachelor would find our quiet life interesting?” 


58 


THE QUITTER 


“Yes, of course. He likes this sort of thing and I 
hear that there is to be a dance at the yacht club. We 
might go over.” 

“Perhaps, that is if I can leave the baby for an 
evening.” 

“For pity’s sake, don’t start that, you can go as 
well as not. He hasn’t waked up in the night since 
we came.” 

“Yes, that’s true and he does seem so well. Oh, 
it makes me happy to have him gaining like this. I 
wouldn’t have believed it possible.” 

“I never had any doubts about it myself. You’re 
too pessimistic altogether. Why can’t you be a little 
cheerful over Freddy once in a while?” 

She did not answer him for a moment, sitting quite 
still, hands clasped over her knees. “Oh well, I don’t 
know, his life—it all seems so vital to me, everything, 
all we have depends upon it. I could not bear the 
thought of lo— ...” 

He bristled. “That’s crazy talk, we aren’t going 
to lose him. He never was in any real danger, we’re 
just over-solicitous. Dean said it was often that way 
with the first child. Wait until we’ve had three or 
four.” 

“Don’t talk like that, please don’t, I can’t stand it. 
I don’t want any more children. Freddy is all I’ll 
ever ask for—just to see him grow up. . . 


THE QUITTER 59 

He put his arm about her. “Dora,” he said softly, 
“you know you don’t mean all that.” 

Gently but firmly she freed herself. “Yes I do! 
It’s easy enough for you to talk of children, you who 
have none of the cares or responsibilities of them. If 
you were a woman, you’d feel differently.” 

From inside the house came a shrill cry and, in an 
instant, she was on her feet. 

“He’s awake. I wonder what’s the matter,” she 
fled inside. 

Left to himself, he watched the moonlight glisten¬ 
ing on the water. He felt moody and alone. Dora— 
he had imagined that she was changing, had thought 
that she was going to be again the little girl of those 
old chummy days, but now; well, it was just a flash 
in the pan, he realized that the moment anything came 
up to change the utter routine of her life, it always 
ended like this. Would it be so forever? He 
wondered. Women, how could a man ever under¬ 
stand their ways, ever hope to plumb the depths of 
their characters? Whimsical, stubborn; perhaps, yet 
all women were not like Dora. 

The night wind soft with the breath of summer 
fanned his cheek. Away on the horizon he could 
dimly see the line of the beach and beyond that, open 
ocean; the mighty roar of it smote upon his ears. 
Old ocean, restless sea, stretching away to other lands 


6o 


THE QUITTER 


where strange people, dressed in queer garments, lived 
lives of which he knew nothing. He wondered if 
they, over there, had problems to face, the little petty 
things of life to live with, that he had. Were they 
harassed with cares, or was life always a sunshine of 
love. Love, what of that; children, blessed gifts, 
they made life worth while. Freddy was nearly eight 
months old now. Was it possible? It seemed longer 
ago than that since the wonderful day when Dean told 
him that he had a son. That boy, little brat, some day 
he would be big and strong and straight and they 
would play together. How long this babyhood busi¬ 
ness dragged out! 

The surge of the ocean, steady and firm like the 
growling of some gigantic monster. Always it 
pounded upon the beach, always it receded; mighty 
force, ages old. But sometimes in stormy weather, ah 
then it crashed and, though it receded, it went a victor, 
taking its toll. And then on pleasant days, quiet, 
serene' untroubled, it would lie, undulating slowly, 
those great forces curbed, held in check. Who would 
then say it was a monster? Who but would look upon 
it and be glad? Where sunshine glinted on placid 
waters, who would believe that it ever could be angry? 

A cloud floated over the moon and he stared into 
blackness. The wind was rising, whistling about the 
house, tomorrow might bring a storm. 


THE QUITTER 


61 


Suddenly he found his wife beside him once more. 
“He’s asleep again, he’s all right, something woke him 
just for a moment.” 

He did not answer her, he was thinking of the 
ocean away out there beyond the protecting strip of 
beach. 

“I guess we’d better invite Don down,” Dora said 
slowly, “it would give you a little diversion.” 

IV 

It rained in the night, a perfect deluge, while the 
wind howled dismally about the cottage, shaking it 
until it trembled. Craig lay for a long time, listening 
to the force of the storm. He could hear the waves 
washing in along the shore and almost imagined that 
the house was floating away. Daylight brought sleep 
and when he awoke, Johnny Mervin was already com¬ 
ing up the lane. He had to dress hastily and swallow 
his breakfast at a gulp in order not to miss his train. 
It was still raining very hard and the gale had not 
abated. He felt tired and moody, cross from lack of 
sleep. 

“It’s liable to last for three days,” Mr. Mervin an¬ 
nounced as they jogged towards the station. “Smoky 
sou’wester, we alius gets ’em at this time o’ the year.” 

The city was afloat, streets slippery, sewers over¬ 
flowing, pedestrians, with umbrellas inside out, trying 


62 


THE QUITTER 


to navigate against the roaring gale. Craig wondered 
how they were faring at Bay Crest. All day he could 
not seem to concentrate on things and he was vastly 
relieved when the time came to take the train back 
home. 

Mr. Mervin with his slicker buttoned tight, bun¬ 
dled him into the stage. “It’s been some day,” he 
announced, “ain’t never seen a worse wind and rain 
at this season o’ the year.” Everything looked gray 
and sullen and plodding Jerry horse was limp. 

As they approached the bungalow it seemed washed 
out, and very small, but inside a bright fire blazed on 
the hearth. It was comfortable and good to be there. 
Dora had fared well enough, she had occupied her 
time with reading, not stirring outside on account of 
the wild fury of the storm. 

“So I find you safe and snug,” he said when he had 
changed his wet clothes. “It’s nicer here by far than 
in the city, even in this wild weather.” 

In the small living room after dinner they sat before 
a driftwood fire. 

“I telephoned Don,” Craig said. “He’s mighty glad 
to come. He’s got one of those new big gasoline cars, 

I forget the name of it, and he wants me to drive 
down with him, says he can make it as fast as the 
train.” 

“I’ll have to get some sort of a new dress/’ Dora 


THE QUITTER 63 

mused. ‘‘I didn’t bring anything good enough for the 
dance at the yacht club.” 

“Oh pshaw, you’ve got clothes, plenty of them!” 
“No. I haven’t. That’s just how much you know 
about it. I haven’t a thing to wear.” 

“Well, come to the city with me some morning. 
You can pick a day when it’s not too hot.” 

“Oh, but I can’t do that, they need me here.” 

“But you said you must have a dress,” he persisted. 
“Yes, I’ve got to have one.” 

“Well, how are you going to get it, if you don’t 
go to New York?” 

She looked up at him. “Do you suppose you could 
pick it out for me?” 

“Me, maybe I could, but it’s a funny thing to ask 
a man to do, isn’t it?” 

“Nonsense, lots of men do it, especially in summer 
time.” 

“Well, what sort of a thingamajig do you want?” 
“I’m going to leave it to you,” she said mis¬ 
chievously. 

“Good Lord, now I am lost! You’ve got to give 
me some sort of an idea. Write it out, can’t you? 
What do I know about women’s clothes?” 

“Don’t be silly, you can do it, if you want to, and 
I won’t go to the dance unless you do.” 

“Oh, all right,” he said resignedly, “but aren’t you 


6 4 


THE QUITTER 


taking an awful chance? Suppose I spring some 
terrible fright on you.” 

“I’m not worrying. You’ve got better taste than 
you realize.” 

“You certainly are complimentary,” he told her, 
“and I hope that your confidence in me has not been 
horribly misplaced.” 

“It will be fun to speculate on what sort of a gown 
you’ll select,” she said, “and I’m only going to impose 
one little condition. You must buy it at Onretie’s.” 

“Is that quite fair?” he laughed. “Why not let me 
pick the place?” 

“Because I know that Onretie never has anything 
that is not the last word in style.” 

“Which lets me out as an arbiter of fashion, I 
should say, and leaves it all to your friend with the 
high-sounding name. But I’ll do it just the same.” 

v 

The following day after lunch he went uptown, a 
part of the city almost unknown to him. Very sel¬ 
dom in his work did he leave lower New York, where 
most of his affairs were concentrated. Riding on the 
elevated, in the clatter and bang of the cars, he was 
relieved when he reached Forty-second Street and took 
the shuttle train to the Grand Central Station, where 
he made his way to the street. 


THE QUITTER 


65 


Onretie’s establishment was just off the Avenue in a 
one-time aristocratic old home which had been reno¬ 
vated and turned into a dressmaking parlor. A neat 
brass plate on the right side of the doorway was the 
only outward indication that the house was not a 
private dwelling. 

Feeling much embarrassed and thoroughly ill at 
ease, Craig walked up to the brownstone stoop, where 
a small boy, resplendent in blue suit and brass buttons, 
ushered him in. Madame Onretie was the rage just 
then. Everything about the place breathed exclusive¬ 
ness. The lights were dim, the fixtures of delicate 
design. Chairs, upholstered in soft toned fabrics, 
stood on a highly polished floor over which was thrown 
a thick piled rug of delicate gray harmonizing beauti¬ 
fully with its surroundings. 

The saleslady, coming forward with a gracious 
smile, tried to put him at ease. “What can I do for 
Monsieur ?” she asked pleasantly, while he caught a 
faint, elusive odor of perfume. 

He colored slightly. 

“Shopping for Madame?” she suggested. With a 
grandiose air she steered him across the room where 
on one of the heavily upholstered chairs he sat down 
awkwardly. “A dress for Madame, something chic, 
an evening gown?” raising slightly her penciled 
eyebrows. 


66 


THE QUITTER 


He nodded his head. This was no place for a man, 
he kept saying to himself. Why couldn’t Dora do 
her own shopping? 

From a corner of the room two very blond girls 
were eyeing him. He could feel their gaze. They 
giggled; he felt strangely disconcerted. The sales¬ 
lady retired, appearing again in a moment with a lacy 
creation draped over her arm. She spread it before 
him. 

“Is it not lovely, so youthful, so charming?” 

To him it looked quite vague. He tried to con¬ 
centrate his thoughts. “It’s rather hard to judge 
when you know as little about it as I do,” he ventured. 

She laughed. “Vrciiment, but shall I have one of 
my models try it on for you?” 

He started; this was probably the usual procedure. 

“Nanette,” called the saleslady, “here, Nanette.” 

From behind dark portieres sauntered a dark eyed, 
slender girl. 

“Ah, cherie, voila, put on this frock so that the gen¬ 
tleman may see and quickly please.” 

Taking the fragile thing in dexterous hands, the 
girl slipped behind the curtains. 

“While you are waiting for her, I can show you 
something else,” Madame continued. 

He scanned the room with some care and in his 
practical mind figured how much its decoration and 


THE QUITTER 


67 

embellishment must have cost. Wonderful how they 
did these things. He wished that he were well out 
of it, though, that he never had come. Then suddenly 
he heard the soft rustle of silk and, turning, beheld a 
vision. Nanette, bold and lovely, head held high, eyes 
shining with a deep light, her lithe body swathed in the 
clinging gown, sauntered slowly towards him. For 
the first time he realized the color of the dress, a 
scintillating green. How lovely she looked. 

She gazed at him with a frank expression. “How 
do you like it?” she asked, turning slowly around so 
that he might get a better view. 

“It’s very pretty,” he told her, cursing to himself 
that he found no better way of expressing what he 
felt. 

This girl, she seemed to vibrate there before him, 
and he saw her through a haze, thrilling strangely at 
the sight. He sat staring at her, his mind full of odd 
fancies. 

“I think it’s just what. I’ve been looking for,” he 
said in a low tone, half to himself. 

She lowered her eyes. “Do you, Monsieur?” 

Madame returned. “Ah well, is it not pretty?” she 
gushed. “I have something else here, perhaps you 
would rather . . .” 

“No,” Craig assured her, anxious to get it over 
with. “No, this first one is very satisfactory.” 


68 


THE QUITTER 


“And you have not yet asked the price of it.” 

He turned toward Nanette, how beautiful! Sud¬ 
denly the thought of Dora flashed through his mind. 
This dress, would it be as becoming? 

“No, I haven’t asked the price. How much is it?” 
He had heard of men being badly swindled in this 
sort of thing. 

“One hundred and eighty-five dollars,” said the 
saleslady sweetly. “And that is not dear.” 

One hundred and eighty-five dollars, but Dora 
had assured him that anything put out by this estab¬ 
lishment would be the last word in style . . . Oh 
well . . . 

“I’ll take it,” he told her. 

“Shall we send it for Monsieur?” 

He shook his head. “I’ll carry it with me.” 

Nanette retired and shortly afterwards he received 
an oblong box which felt very light. He paid his bill 
and retreated, feeling very sheepish. Madame ush¬ 
ered him to the door, babbling feverishly, and he 
breathed a sigh of relief as he walked down the steps. 
Looking at his watch, he was surprised to find that 
the whole transaction had consumed just fifteen 
minutes. 

In the street the sunlight was very bright and it 
was late in the afternoon before he got rid of a vague 


THE QUITTER 


feeling of unrest—it had been a unique experience, 
but he would not care to repeat it. Those women and 
girls at Onretie’s, they had probably laughed behind 
his back, taking him for a sort of Miss Nancy. That 
was a woman’s world and no place for a man to tread. 


VI 

Dora tried on the dress that evening, while he 
waited for her on the piazza and when she came out 
to show it to him she looked very young, very girlish. 

“Tell me, is it becoming?” she asked, anxiously. 

“It’s very pretty, yes, and quite becoming,” he said, 
his mind flashing back to Nanette, that young model 
with the dash and air. His wife seemed to be carry¬ 
ing on her shoulders just a lot of pretty lacy ma¬ 
terial. The picture lacked something, she appeared 
almost childlike. 

“I think it’s adorable,” Dora cooed, “just adorable. 
Didn’t I tell you that you had good taste? I’m sim¬ 
ply crazy about this dress, I couldn’t have done a bit 
better myself,” and she patted him on the cheek. “It 
must have been a difficult thing for you to do, too.” 

He laughed uneasily. “It wasn’t just what I am 
used to,” he told her candidly. “I’m glad you are 
pleased though.” 


70 


THE QUITTER 

“Now I don’t care who sees me at the dance,” she 
said delightedly. “There won’t be a more stunning 
gown there than this. . . 

He did not answer her, he was wondering how Nan¬ 
ette might have looked ... at the dance. 


CHAPTER VI 


Over a cigarette and a cocktail at the club Jimmy 
Marchmand and Don Walden were gossiping. 

“You haven’t told me anything about that new car 
of yours,” Jimmy said. “How’s it running?” 

Don grinned. “All right, that is until last week. 
Since then I’ve had a peck of trouble. Best car in the 
world when she’s going strong. I went down to visit 
old Craigie over the Fourth, hadn’t seen him in a long 
time. Took him down in the car. It isn’t much of 
a run out to Bay Crest, good roads all the way. I can 
do it about as fast as the train. I stopped at his of¬ 
fice and we started down early in the afternoon, going 
by way of the center island road. No houses there, 
you know, and you can make fast time. He was 
quite crazy about the machine, terribly interested in the 
mechanism and all that. We bowled along at a good 
clip and got well out in the country and then darned 
if a shoe didn’t blow right off the rim! It took us 
over an hour to put a new one on and was some job. 
He was fussing all the time because it was getting 
late, afraid his wife would worry. I never saw a man 
take on so. We finished with the tire, got started 


72 


THE QUITTER 


again just about dusk, and then my old gas tank cut 
up and I didn’t have much light to drive by. We had 
to make the remainder of the trip at a mighty slow 
speed and it was long past dark when we reached his 
town and got out to that God-forsaken bungalow of 
theirs. The place is on a point of land, right down 
on the shore of the bay, with no neighbor for a good 
half mile in all directions. It’s a comfortable little 
joint when you get there, though. Dora was waiting 
on the piazza to greet us and seemed mighty pleased 
to see me. I don’t honestly know how pleased she 
really was though, for I believe she held it up against 
me for being so late. I apologized properly and told 
her all of our troubles. 

“We had a couple of good cocktails, the old boy 
certainly does know how to mix a drink, and sat down 
to a delicious dinner, after which we spent the rest of 
the evening sitting on the veranda listening to the 
drone of millions of mosquitoes marooned outside the 
wire netting. I thanked God that the place was 
screened. 

“Craigie has a cat boat and the next day we went 
over to the island together. Dora wouldn’t go, said 
she couldn’t leave the baby all day, though I didn’t 
just get that. They’ve got a big fat Irish girl who 
seems competent. But Old Serious Face and I had a 
good time fishing in the bay and then going over and 


THE QUITTER 73 

bathing in the surf. Along toward the middle of the 
afternoon he got in a terrible sweat to get back home 
and I was glad that we had a good sailing breeze, for 
I’m afraid if we hadn’t he would have gone crazy. 
We didn’t delay any; the boat is fast. 

“There was a dance at the yacht club that night and 
we all went over. Dora didn’t seem to me to get 
into the picture, she fusses an awful lot. They’re 
spoiling that child of theirs. 

“I didn’t have such a wonderful time. She’s a bully 
dancer though, as you know, and I never saw her look 
better. Wore a nifty green dress, quite daring it 
seemed to me, that is, for her type. Old Craigie didn’t 
get a bit of fun out of the whole shebang, mooned 
around on the piazza where he met a couple of people 
he knew. I spent practically all of the time with his 
wife. I’m sort of fed up on her; she bombarded me 
with talk about the baby. Honestly, she’s hipped on 
that subject. We started back to the bungalow in 
good season and I wanted to run down the road a 
little way and have a bite to eat at Marvies’, but 
Dora, well she thought it was too late and that she 
ought to go home; so home we went and to bed at a 
Christian hour, while the mosquitoes droned outside 
and too darn many of them buzzed around my head 
in the room. Jimmy, I wouldn’t stay down in that 
place for anything, it’s awful. But I’m glad I went, 


74 


THE QUITTER 


it cheered old Craigie up. He’s terribly serious, takes 
life as an awful problem and all that sort of thing. 
Never saw a man change so in a couple of years in 
all my life!” 

Marchmand considered. “He spends altogether too 
much time with his wife,” he said. “Bad thing that, 
makes a woman expect a lot. Now take Grace, for 
example. She goes away for the summer, far enough 
so that I only get down to see her week ends. I know 
that she’s in a pleasant place, nice surroundings; here 
in the city I have a good time. We get along wonder¬ 
fully that way.” 

“With Grace, yes, that’s all right,” Don observed. 
“She’s sensible, she believes in doing the thing that is 
best for all concerned, but you never could work out 
that proposition with a woman like Dora. She makes 
Craig fetch and carry. Poor devil, he doesn’t realize 
it. I suppose he’s happy in his own way at that.” 

“Well, perhaps he is,” Jimmy said slowly, “but wait 
a few years. Craig’s a big strong man, he’ll wake up, 
he isn’t the sort to stand that kind of thing forever.” 

“Why, Old Serious Face is contented, he would 
never look at another woman, if that’s what you mean. 
I don’t believe he knows that there are any other 
women in the world besides his own wife.” 

Marchmand laid a hand on his arm. “A girl will 
come along some day and sweep that old baby right 


THE QUITTER 


75 


off his feet,” he said sagely. “He isn’t happy, he 
couldn’t be: he’s only kidding himself. Why, Grace 
told me Dora boasted of the fact that her husband 
never went out any more, so devoted you know, never 
wanted to go away from home without her. It’s 
bosh, I tell you. I’ve been married seven years and 
Grace and I understand each other absolutely. It isn’t 
a lack of love when a man wants a bit of freedom; 
the other way leads to trouble.” 

You know,” Don observed, “I used to wonder 
about you and Grace, you seemed so cold toward one 
another.” 

“We don’t do our mushing in public, that’s true. 
I suppose it seems peculiar to you, but that’s because 
you’re so darn ignorant about married life, isn’t it? 
You see women in a different light! When you take 
a girl out, you’re on the top of the wave and so is 
she; don’t forget that, it’s important. Marriage isn’t 
at all like that. No, sir, and the crest of the wave 
doesn’t last forever by any means. It is give and 
take, for both sides, and the sooner people find that 
out, the sooner they’re going to live happily forever 
after, as the story books used to say. You can’t 
stick to the same old routine without getting into a 
rut. Folks can’t do it in other ways of life, how can 
they expect to get away with it in the married state? 
No, the happy couples are the ones where each one 


76 


THE QUITTER 


has a certain amount of freedom; they are the ones 
that last. Show me a pair where either the wife or 
the husband dominates and I’ll show you trouble.” 

“Jimmy, you missed your calling,” Don observed, 
“you should have been a preacher. You certainly 
have got the gift of gab.” 

“Well,” Marchmand said, “I’ve never set myself 
up as an oracle, but I do think that I have learned a 
lot since I got out of short pants.” 

Don considered. “You’re right about the Hallow- 
ells, though. They’re living an awfully forced sort of 
existence. I can’t understand just how Dora domi¬ 
nates as she does. She’s really a sensitive little crea¬ 
ture, almost frail. You wouldn’t expect her type to 
be able to lead, and push a great big he-man 
around . . .” 

“My boy,” Jimmy interposed, “they’re just the kind 
who can do it. It isn’t always the big, over-bearing 
woman who takes the reins; these little creatures, they 
do it in a soft way of their own, tears and mushing. 

I don’t know the Hallowells awfully well, but I’ll 
wager Dora gets her way by the tearful method a lot 
of the time.” 

“Oh, well, let’s forget it,” Don said. “I may get 
married some day myself and I don’t want to know 
too much about it beforehand; spoils all the fun.” 


CHAPTER VII 


The days of early fall had come. Craig saw lit¬ 
tle of Bay Crest now, leaving shortly after sun-up, 
when things were hardly distinguishable, and return¬ 
ing at night after dark. The ride down the lane from 
the station seemed longer, old Jerry horse shuffled 
along at a snail’s pace, apparently glorying in his abil¬ 
ity to keep up this ambling gait. Darkness, chill and 
bleak, was always upon them before the point was 
reached where the lights of the cottage, twinkling out 
of a sea of blackness, looked like little winking eyes. 
Everything seemed submerged, smothered. 

He was anxious to get back home. For three con¬ 
secutive Saturdays he had been compelled to go to 
town and Sunday was not a long enough time in which 
to rest up from the fatigue of the trip, which had be¬ 
gun to pall on him. But those Sundays were wonder 
days with a tang in the air and a strong wind from 
off the ocean. He still kept his little cat boat, not 
wishing to give it up until the chilliness of the weather 
made it absolutely necessary, and when Dora felt that 
she could leave the presence of the all-absorbing baby 
for an hour, they sailed over the bay, delighting in 
77 


78 


THE QUITTER 


its freedom, while the wind blew the water into white- 
caps and the salt spray flew in their faces. 

At night they would sit before the blazing grate; 
it was too chilly now to spend evenings out of doors, 
and Craig would smoke his comfortable cigar, while 
Dora busied herself with some of her interminable 
sewing, on things of which he never quite grasped 
the necessity, but which to her seemed vastly impor¬ 
tant. Freddy had grown during the summer, there 
was no chance for argument on that point and, though 
he was still far from the robust youngster that his 
father always pictured all boy children to be, he was, 
nevertheless, much stronger and that fact was the com¬ 
fort and all the joy of his mother’s life. 

Dora herself seemed quite contented and this was 
always so when she was left alone to work out her 
own way in so far as matters concerned the child. He 
was her universe, nothing mattered save his welfare. 
But let the smallest thing interfere with the utter rou¬ 
tine of what was her own idea of life, then trouble, 
argument, futile words, ending generally with tears 
on her part and abject humiliation and apologies on 
the part of Craig. 

And so it very naturally came about that he fell 
into the habit of saying nothing as to the welfare 
of his son. Though he saw many things which were 
utter foolishness, a waste of time and effort, and 


79 


THE QUITTER 

which showed a lack of system, he kept his own 
counsel, realizing that discussion brought them no¬ 
where and only caused ill-feeling. Life had become 
a thing of routine, a groove in which they traveled, 
deviating never from the path, one day exactly like 
another. But he had his business interests, diverse, 
ever-changing, and the future on that side looked 
bright. He plunged into it more than ever, giving 
to it the best that was in him. There his personality 
had full sway. 


il 

The coming of the late October rains at length 
drove them back to their suburban home. Craig 
stayed down a day to help pack up and straighten 
things out. Never had he realized how much extra 
paraphernalia a baby entailed; the milk must be or¬ 
dered to be on hand at the house at home. “Now 
don’t forget to telephone the milkman to be sure and 
leave the order at our house. It must be just exactly 
what we have been having down here and don’t . . 
The stage was far down the lane before her last words 
of instruction were given and she fussed all day for 
fear that things would not be right. 

On the morning of their departure Dora had him up 
at six o’clock, though the train did not start until 
after nine. In a daze he did things for her, while she 


8o 


THE QUITTER 


flew about the place issuing instructions, scurrying 
here, there, everywhere. Breakfast was a hurried re¬ 
past, a frugal meal; Delia had to get all the dishes 
washed up. Was there no more cream? No, of 
course not. Why worry about a thing as unimportant 
as cream for cereal, when Freddy was about to make 
a journey. Hadn’t she enough things to think about? 

Johnny Mervin hove in sight hours too early. “I 
thought as how I might be able to do something for 
you,” he told Craig. “I’m sorry to see you folks 
leave. I hope you’ll come back again next year. 
Can’t I help you with some of your luggage? Let me 
take that grip,” and he hoisted the bag up on the front 
of the stage, while Jerry grunted his disapproval of so 
much extra weight. 

Gray mist lay low over the landscape, the air was 
raw and chilly. 

“We’ll get a spell of these dreary days for a while, 
I expect,” the stage driver said. “Always come this 
way before the first real cold. You ought to come 
down later in the season, Mr. Hallowell, and get some 
duck shooting. Why, the ducks is so thick here some¬ 
times, they almost blot out the sun. Fact, they fly in 
clouds. Last year I was out with a chap from New 
York and . . .” 

Dora appeared in the doorway and cut short his 


THE QUITTER 81 

speech. “Craig, come in here and take the ice-box. 
Be careful of it, it’s all packed with milk.” 

At last they were ready, ice-box, bags, rugs and all. 
The baby was swathed like a young Eskimo, only his 
head visible. They climbed into the rickety old stage. 
Delia was a trifle upset, always she was this way at 
times when she was most needed. They were half 
way down the lane when she suddenly remembered 
that she had left a lamp burning in the kitchen. Craig 
could have killed her, he was in just that frame of 
mind. But Dora, always forgiving in so far as mat¬ 
ters touched the big, raw-boned Irish girl, called to 
Johnny to turn around and go back to the bungalow. 

“Just run in and put the lamp out,” she said to her 
husband. 

He climbed out of the stage, went inside and looked 
things over, seeing no lamp lit anywhere, everything 
ship-shape and tidy. But as he climbed back into his 
seat he said nothing, feeling that arguments, at such 
a time, were well to be avoided. 

Jerry trotted slowly along. For a brief moment 
the sun broke through dense banks of cloud and Craig 
looked back as they turned the corner of the lane. 
The bungalow; there it was, a little dot in the dis¬ 
tance, deserted now, no cheerful smoke ascending 
from the chimney, dark, it stood out against the black 


82 


THE QUITTER 


waters of the bay. It was the last time he would take 
this ride to the station and he wondered if, in spite 
of many things, he did not really regret leaving, a 
little. As he recalled those days in the dancing little 
cat boat, he felt a bit of a pang. But a cold wind sang 
through the trees, leaves were scattered on the ground; 
this was no place to be at such a time of year, better 
by far the suburbs, with the teeming city only a few 
minutes away. The teeming city; it was as welcome 
in winter as it was horrible in summer. There was 
life and noise and hustle, the ever-changing kaleido¬ 
scope of human hopes and fears, while here, dull 
monotony; yes, he was glad that they were going 
home. 


HI 

Their house was just as they had left it, all things 
in place, plenty of milk waiting in the ice-box, and 
the maid, who for a few months had been enjoying a 
vacation, at the door to greet them. 

“He looks elegantly well, Mrs. Hallowed,” she said 
of the baby, “simply elegant and you look elegant, 
tool” 

“He is better,” Dora agreed. “He’s gained a lot. 
If we can only keep him this way . . . We’ll be down 
to lunch in a moment. It’s been a hard journey for 


THE QUITTER 


83 


the little dear, he’s not used to traveling. We have 
been so very quiet down at Bay Crest, I hope this 
won’t upset him.” Freddy howled all through lunch 
and his mother was up and down many times. 

Through a long afternoon Craig wandered about 
the house. He tried once or twice to help his wife, 
but without success; she seemed to resent it. So he 
went downstairs to the library and found a book, 
which occupied him until the fading light made read¬ 
ing without artificial illumination impossible. How 
restricted everything was here. He gazed out of the 
window at the houses across the street; it was all ter¬ 
ribly shut in. No ever-restless, ever-changing land¬ 
scape to gaze upon, just dusty asphalt. He had loved 
the life at Bay Crest, he knew that, since getting back 
home. It had brought to him a realization of the 
beauties of their little shore retreat, which he had 
never fully appreciated while there. 

Dora was too tired to come down to dinner; the 
strain of the trip had exhausted her, she said, so Craig, 
in the silence of the dining room, ate his meal alone, 
and his mind drifted back to that other evening, not 
quite one year ago, when for the first time he had sat 
down at that same table by himself. Was it only a 
year? What changes it had wrought! A year. 
How slowly children grew! 


8 4 


THE QUITTER 


IV 

Dropping in for a friendly call a few evenings later, 
the Marchmands were regaled by Dora with the won¬ 
ders of the summer on Long Island. 

“And did Craig come down every night?” Grace 
asked. “Goodness, Jimmy would never do that for 
me; make that long trip every day, would you?” 

“Why yes, of course I would if it were necessary.” 

“He always acts nice before company,” Grace as¬ 
sured them. “He’s much too fond of his own com¬ 
fort though to track back and forth all summer and 
I really think he’s better off in the city during the 
week. He likes it, doesn’t mind the heat . . 

“But aren’t you fearfully lonesome without him?” 
Dora interrupted. 

Grace lifted her shoulders. “Perhaps,” she said, 
“but then I have the children and lots of friends down 
where we go. I don’t miss him an awful lot during 
the week, and sometimes I’m almost glad when he goes 
back on Sunday nights, he complicates things—some¬ 
times.” 

“Grace, she’s glad to get rid of me,” Jimmy 
laughed. “She has a better time, gives her a free 
hand and, when I do come down over week-ends, she’s 
just crazy about me, aren’t you, dear? What’s that 
song, something about 'Absence makes the heart grow 


THE QUITTER 85 

fonder’ ? The fellow who wrote that knew something 
about life.” 

Dora listened to this conversation with wide open 
eyes. “Oh, but I don’t believe that at all!” she ex¬ 
claimed. “I wouldn’t have stayed down in that bun¬ 
galow without Craig, I just couldn’t. The only three 
times he did have to be away, I never slept a wink.” 

“And he didn’t either,” Jimmy ventured, “did you, 
Craigie, old chap?” 

Craig’s face was a study. Dora’s keen eyes were 
upon him. “Why,” he said slowly, “I don’t just re¬ 
member. I had business to attend to those nights in 
the city, stayed at a noisy hotel, didn’t sleep quite as 
well as I would have in the utter quiet of Bay Crest.” 

Jimmy patted him softly on the back. “You 
vieedn’t tell us any more, old fellow, we understand.” 

They were playing bridge, the Marchmands were 
clever hands. Grace was Craig’s partner. He always 
floundered at the game; slow in thinking, he was not 
a brilliant player. Jimmy and Dora ran up a grand 
slam. Grace watched her partner out of the corner 
of her eye. “He isn’t thinking of the game at all,” 
she was saying to herself. “He’s thinking what im¬ 
pression Dora got, the way he explained his nights in 
the city.” 

“Now don’t trump my ace,” she said aloud. 

“Pay attention to the game, old scout,” Jimmy told 


86 THE QUITTER 

him. “My wife’s a wizard at cards and she hates to 
lose.” 

“That’s not a nice thing to tell him,” Grace said. 
“I don’t hate to lose any more than you do. I was 
just trying to . . 

“To help,” said Craig. “It was nice of you. I do 
need lots of assistance.” 

“You wouldn’t if you’d pay attention to Grace’s 
leads,” Jimmy volunteered. 

Grace Marchmand felt sorry for Craig that night 
and she could not tell just why. He seemed so help¬ 
less, so under the spell of something that she could 
not define. Was it Dora? She looked at her, frail 
thing with her golden hair and colorless eyes. How 
could such a man be so dominated ? She thought that 
she disliked Dora a little and for the first time noticed 
what a selfish mouth she had. Five times during the 
progress of the game, Freddy’s mother was up and 
down, listening for him. She appeared in a kind of 
feverish haste about everything. The game ended, 
at last, and Grace was glad of it. 

Later, talking with Craig while they sipped a high¬ 
ball, she looked keenly at him. How he had changed 
in the comparatively short time that she had known 
him. Whenever his wife was about, he talked as 
though he expected each moment to hear words of 
displeasure from her. 


THE QUITTER 


87 


“It was mighty nice of you and Jimmy to drop in,” 
he was saying. “Mighty nice, Grace, and I wish that 
we four could get together oftener. Dora needs this 
kind of thing.” 

“Why don’t you go about more?” she asked him 
frankly. 

With a slow finger, he shook the ashes from his 
cigar. “I don’t know. For no reason that I can see 
except that Do feels that she must always be on hand 
because something might happen. . . There was 
hopelessness in his tone. 

“It’s foolish to take on so about children. They 
never thank you when they grow up, never appreciate 
it and it only spoils them.” 

For a moment he said nothing, gazing moodily at 
the floor, then: “I never realized how people can 
change. Now you take Dora, she used to be . . .” 
But he checked himself, suddenly switching the sub¬ 
ject, evidently feeling that he was giving away too 
much of the family confidences. 

V 

At home Grace said to Jimmy, “One of these days 
Craig will fall violently in love with some girl. . . .” 

“Don and I were talking about that at the club. I 
told him the very same thing and he was inclined to 
scoff at the idea.” 


88 


THE QUITTER 


Grace smiled a knowing little smile. “He laughed? 
A lot Don knows about such matters. Why, if Craig 
had half a chance tonight, he would have poured out 
all his troubles to me, but I think he got frightened, 
because he thought he was saying too much. He’s 
craving sympathy and that in a man is the be¬ 
ginning . . 

“What do you make of Dora? I can’t fathom her 
at all. With such a man for a husband, money 
enough to have almost anything within reason, she’s 
living almost the life of a hermit.” 

“She got a false start and now she is just drifting. 
In some ways I think she is what you might call a too 
conscientious person. It’s almost a sin when it gets 
that bad. She’s terribly nervous, too, but I’ll venture 
that when she starts out to do anything, nothing can 
turn her from her purpose. Why do men marry such 
wrens ?” 

“You’re terribly bitter. Women are cruel to each 
other.” 

“Perhaps I am a little bitter, but I’m not cruel. 
In a way I like Dora and I’m going to try to know her 
better. It’s dreadful to see two people wasting their 
lives like that. He’s a wonderful man—deep . . 

Jimmy laughed. “Romantic as ever!” 

“What would you do if you’d married Dora?” 


THE QUITTER 89 

Grace asked, ignoring his remark. “How would you 
like the life that her husband must lead?” 

“What would I do if I had married her, Gracie? 
You know that it never could have happened, so why 
speculate. I couldn’t love anyone else but you.” 

“Don’t make me laugh, Jimmy Marchmand. You 
know that you’re crazy over any woman who looks 
at you twice. Now don’t try to deny it, I haven’t 
lived with you all these years without knowing a little 
about you. You’re just like all the rest.” 

“Clever old Gracie!” 

“A woman has to be clever to hold a husband . . . 
sometimes.” 


VI 

On Freddy’s first birthday, Aunt Agatha arrived to 
help celebrate the event. Craig, returning from the 
office early that afternoon, found the old lady at the 
house and everything in a flutter. The baby, dressed 
in his best and propped up in a high chair in the din¬ 
ing room, sat at the table on which stood a small 
birthday cake, heart shaped and covered with pink 
icing. One solitary candle adorned it. 

“Isn’t he wise now?” his mother said. “He knows 
what’s going on, don’t you, Snookums?” she buried 
her face in his little shoulder. 


90 


THE QUITTER 


Snookums looked about the room, big eyes taking 
in everything in sight. Then he puckered up his small 
mouth and began to cry. 

“Mustn’t do ’at,” said Dora. “Not on his burfem 
day, no, no, naughty, naughty. See, bright candle, 
it’s all for you.” And she held the cake up close to 
his face. For the time being it quieted him, enabling 
the grown-ups to eat the ice-cream which had been 
provided. 

“Foolish business, this,” Agatha observed suddenly. 
“He doesn’t appreciate it, he’s much too young to 
understand, or get anything out of it.” 

“Why,” Dora said and her face was very white, 
“you mustn’t talk like that, you mustn’t think it even.” 

Aunty sniffed. “Well, child, it’s all right, if you 
want to do it, but it seems mighty foolish to me, we 
three sitting here eating ice-cream just before our 
evening meal. But pshaw, who cares what I think 
anyhow ?” 

Dora was in tears now. “Why I thought you 
would like it, his first birthday. It seemed such a 
shame not to celebrate in some way. You like it, 
Craig, don’t you?” 

“Of course I do,” he lied. “It’s quite the proper 
thing. Aunt Agatha didn’t mean what she said, did 
you?” 

“Goodness, no! I never thought she’d take it so 


THE QUITTER 91 

seriously,” said the old lady. “I didn’t want to upset 
you, Dora. I guess I’m too practical minded.” 

“But you’ve spoiled it all for me,” she sobbed, pick¬ 
ing Freddy up in her arms and carrying him from the 
room. 

“Oh,” Craig called after her, “don’t do that. Let’s 
have peace, Do. Don’t be so foolish.” 

She swept up the stairs, paying no attention to 
what he was saying. 

Aunt Agatha looked crestfallen. “I put my foot 
in it, I guess, but it won’t do her any harm.” 

“It might do a lot of harm,” Craig blazed, “and I 
can’t for the life of me understand what made you 
act so.” He looked keenly at her. Was she changed 
too, this ancient New England spinster? What 
devilish trick was this, some new problem to face? 
Agatha, who had always been so kind. 

“You’re ruining your lives,” the old woman said 
slowly. “Ruining them! Dora never should have 
had a child, some women can’t stand it.” 

He was dumbfounded and found nothing to say. 
Was she going crazy? 

“I loved her, loved her as though she were my 
own,” the old woman continued. “Nobody can ever 
say that I didn’t do my best by her while she was 
under my roof. And now—well, she’s not the same 
person she used to be, that’s all.” 


92 


THE QUITTER 


From upstairs came the sound of a baby’s cry. Of 
all the unfeeling things, thought Craig. How could 
anyone be so cruel? 

Agatha rambled on. “A great deal of it is your 
fault. You’ve been much too easy with her, you’ll 
regret it some day. That’s the way with men, though, 
they pamper a woman for years and then suddenly 
realize that a great change has come and never, oh 
never, do they think that they have had anything to 
do with it; oh no! I’ll run up now and quiet her, 
she’ll never hold it against me, she’ll forget . . . and 
forgive.” Prim and straight she rustled from the 
room. 

Moodily he gazed at the ice-cream, slowly disin¬ 
tegrating on his plate, the small birthday candle gut¬ 
tering and flowing wax down over pink frosting. He 
wandered over to the window and stood looking out. 
The sky was overcast and a sharp wind scuttled the 
dry leaves down the street, blowing them up in little 
cones along the gutter. Dead things, once so bright 
and gay. It was dark and dreary, the first real chilly 
day of fall, and just beyond lay winter, long, cheerless 
season. He pulled down the shade to shut out the 


scene. 


PART TWO 



CHAPTER I 


Slowly out of the east the sun was rising, dissipat¬ 
ing with its warm rays a thick blanket of white mist 
that lay over the countryside, aftermath of the frosty 
night just passed. Along the ridge the trees were a 
blaze of color, reds, faint purples and bursting yel¬ 
low ; they reflected the glory of the coming day. Snug 
at the foot of the mountain the little suburban town 
of Rockledge bestirred itself to face the business of a 
new day. Thin lines of smoke from many chimneys 
rose straight up in the clear air. 

Along the twisting road leading to the summit of 
the ridge, a man on horseback made his way, doubling 
and toiling up the slope, coming out at length upon 
the summit, where he reined in his horse, gazing for 
a moment at the panorama spread mile upon mile be¬ 
low. The roofs of Rockledge were directly beneath, 
and beyond to the shimmering horizon, other towns, 
until away in the distance they merged with the battle¬ 
ments and turrets of the greatest city in the western 
world. 

The horse was restless, impatient to be off. Craig 
Hallowell faced about, plunging into the woods, 
95 


96 


THE QUITTER 


swinging down the bridle path in the golden glory 
of the early morning, while the pebbles flew back 
from his flying animal’s feet. He met not a soul in 
his ride and half an hour later came out again on the 
top of the ridge. The town was astir now and along 
smoothly paved streets he could see the usual morning 
line of motor cars gravitating toward a common cen¬ 
ter, the square before the railroad station where the 
trains waited to take their regular crowd of com¬ 
muters to the nearby city. 

Descending the steep hill, he trotted slowly down 
a wide, tree-bordered street, running parallel with the 
ridge, turning in, at length, at a driveway where, dis¬ 
mounting at the horse-block, a man came from some¬ 
where at the back of the premises and took his horse. 
Stiffly he mounted the piazza steps, but once inside, 
flung away his cap, taking the stairs two steps at a 
time and bursting into his bedroom like a whirlwind. 

“Dora, it’s a wonderful morning,” he called. 
“Never had a finer ride, I feel like a million dollars!” 

From the bed a sleepy voice answered him. “Good¬ 
ness, but you’re energetic! I didn’t know it was 
daylight yet.” 

The shower in the bathroom swished. “Ouch! 
Blimp! Why I—Yow! Yow! but this water’s cold. 
You should have been with me. Wow!” 

She laughed a drowsy laugh. “Why do you al- 


THE QUITTER 


97 


ways make such a row when you get under a shower ? 
You yell like a Comanche Indian. What will the 
neighbors think?” 

“Bother them, I have to yell, that’s all! It helps a 
lot, this water is darn chilly. Come on, lazy bones, 
get up or you’ll be late for breakfast.” 

“I wish I had your energy. It must be wonderful 
to feel like that in the morning.” 

“Nothing wonderful about it, just exercise.” 

Groans and then a frowsy figure in scuffling mules 
and lacy negligee. “Why it’s half past eight. What 
time did you get up?” 

“Has Freddy gone to school yet?” 

Dora yawned. “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him.” 

Just then in the doorway appeared the young man 
himself. A spare lad, ten years of age, he came 
slowly into the room. 

“Hello,” said his father, “how are you this 
morning ?” 

“Oh, all right, I guess,” answered the child in a voice 
which had in it a trace of peevishness. 

His mother bent tenderly over him. “Feeling all 
right, aren’t you, dear?” she asked anxiously. 

He nodded his head. “I guess so.” 

Craig laughed. “Monday morning, is that it? 
Well, we all have to go to school when we’re young. 
It’s hard on a day like this, but you’re all right. Go 


98 THE QUITTER 

along, you’ll feel better when you get with your pals.” 

The boy walked about the room, examining every¬ 
thing, looking out of the window, standing first on 
one foot and then the other. “I need a dollar,” he 
suddenly confessed, “I want to buy something with it.” 

On the chiffonnier in a litter of keys, papers, pencils 
and a cigarette case, his father found his wallet. 
“There,” he said, taking out a new bill, “how’s that?” 

Freddy’s eyes danced. “Oh, and it’s a smooth 
one, too. Goodbye!” And running gaily from the 
room, he clattered downstairs. Two minutes later the 
car swung into the drive and from the window they 
waved to him as he sped on to the seat of learning. 

“He’s a whimsical young chap this morning, isn’t 
he?” said Dora. 

Deep in the mysteries of tying a four-in-hand in a 
collar with a tight band, Craig did not answer her 
direct question. 

“Darn this laundry: what do they put in collars 
nowadays, anyhow?” 

“If you don’t like the way they do your things, for 
goodness’ sake change again. This is only the third 
laundry I’ve had and we’ve been here just six weeks. 
I never saw anybody as fussy as you are. What do 
you suppose other men do?” 

“I don’t know, but I’ll bet they swear some if they 


THE QUITTER 


99 


have the same thing to contend with that I have. All 
laundries are alike, I guess. It’s a skin game. And 
of course they don’t care a rap, they can get all the 
work they want, whether I kick or not. I believe 
they’re in league.” 

Over the breakfast Dora was silent. She never 
could think clearly until the second cup of coffee. 

“It’s a crime to have to go to the city on a day 
like this,” Craig observed. “How are you going to 
spend the time?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll find plenty to do!” 

“Yes, I know, household stuff, but I didn’t mean 
that. You ought to get out and enjoy these last fall 
days. Why don’t you telephone Grace Marchmand 
and see if she’ll play golf with you?” 

She helped herself to a thin slice of toast. “Well,” 
she replied, “after I have done about a hundred things 
that a man never thinks a woman with a house to man¬ 
age has to do, perhaps I’ll have time to go out and 
play. Grace is much too good for me to match up 
with anyhow, it makes me nervous to play with her.” 

Over his glasses he glanced keenly at her; she looked 
a trifle pale. “Why make such a fuss about this 
housekeeping?” he said kindly. “Is it any harder here 
than where we used to live?” 


IOO 


THE QUITTER 


“No, not when one gets used to it, I suppose. But 
you know we’re not well known yet, we haven’t 
arrived . . 

He burst out laughing. “That’s good, but I don’t 
think I get your meaning.” 

She stirred her coffee slowly, gazing out of the win¬ 
dow at the garden, withered now, where brown leaves 
and frost-nipped dahlias lay quiet under a flood of 
golden sunshine. 

“This is a provincial little town,” she observed, “and 
its society is quite exclusive, not at all cosmopolitan.” 

“I think you’re absolutely wrong about that,” he 
insisted. “I have never been in a place where they 
seemed less set up and crazy about themselves. We’ve 
only lived here a short time, yet I have met lots of 
people and I must say I like them.” 

“Oh, the Golf Club? Yes, I’ll grant you that. 
Those men who play golf, making of it a sort of reli¬ 
gion. It’s easy to get in that set, if you can hit a ball, 
but they don’t, by any means, represent the whole 
town.” 

“Dora,” he said anxiously, “sometimes I don’t know 
what to make of you. You were dead anxious to 
move here, you hated the life down nearer the city. 
Who urged it after Jimmy and Grace moved and gave 
us such glowing accounts of Rockledge? It’s a much 
longer trip for me every day. Didn’t we think that 


THE QUITTER 


ioi 


the change would do Freddy lots of good and hasn’t 
it done that already? I like what I have seen of 
things here and I can’t understand why you feel as 
you do.” 

“Well, I didn’t expect you would. I’m not going to 
say anything more about it. Who knows, perhaps 
we may be taken up by the elite yet !” 

“Some of those darn women have been talking to 
you,” he snarled. “Some silly gossip, I suppose. 
Honestly this upsets me after our just coming here. 
I thought you would be wild about it.” 

“It’s nothing for you to get so excited over,” she 
said coldly. “As usual, though, you’re jumping to 
conclusions and, as for the women you vaguely men¬ 
tion, that’s laughable. I never said I didn’t like the 
place, I only told you that I thought the society was a 
trifle provincial and that we as yet had not been taken 
up. Just because I don’t rave over every living soul 
we meet and smile a glad, glad smile all the time, you 
throw at me that I don’t appreciate Rockledge. You’re 
absurd. Can’t I venture an opinion without being 
jacked up? Nobody realizes more than I do the good 
this change is going to do Freddy. Nobody has his 
interests more at heart, nor half as much. ... It 
isn’t easy for me to make new friends. I don’t mix 
well, I suppose; you’ve told me that enough times, but 
I can’t help it, it’s the way I was brought up, I guess.” 


102 


THE QUITTER 


He wanted to assure her that she had not always 
been that way, but her eyes were moist with tears, so 
he said nothing, burying his face in the morning news¬ 
paper. 

After a moment’s pause. “It’s always so easy to 
quarrel at breakfast,” he ventured. “I’m sorry; I 
didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” 

She did not reply, sitting quite still, head turned 
slightly to one side, lost in reverie. He wondered 
what she was thinking about. How often he specu¬ 
lated on that, how little he understood this woman, 
his wife, full of thoughts and emotions which were to 
him a closed book. Why was it so? Was he stupid 
that he did not know her better ? He believed he was. 
He had picked this quarrel, that darn collar had been 
the cause of it. Coming in from his ride in the zest 
of the early morning, full of vigor, waking her when 
she perhaps needed the sleep; it was selfish. But some¬ 
how her languor had irritated him. Tactless to have 
run on so. She probably hated his abounding good 
nature, for he was good-natured when he got off the 
back of that horse. He went over to her, putting a 
hand upon her shoulder. She started at his touch. 

“Goodbye,” he said, “try to get out in the air. You 
haven’t any idea how wonderful it is.” And bending 
down he kissed her cheek. She hardly moved at the 


caress. 


THE QUITTER 


103 


n 

Rockledge was a complacent town, priding itself on 
its lack of manufacturing interests and glorying be¬ 
cause it was known as a residential city, a place of 
homes. Other towns to the south might sing the song 
of humming industry, where giant chimneys belched 
smoke all day long; Rockledge took no interest in such 
things. It was content. Its well laid out, tree-shaded 
streets, wide-spreading lawns with houses set far back 
from the curb line, its parks and its fine schools, all 
bespoke the home-like atmosphere. No such thing as 
trade rivalry existed there, the inhabitants taking spe¬ 
cial delight in the fact that only one factory, and that 
a small one, lay within its boundaries. This same 
factory, too, was well on the outskirts, almost, in fact, 
in the next village, and. it had only been put there 
through the connivance of a mercenary member of 
one of the old town boards who, caring more for the 
almighty dollar than for his Rockledge reputation, had 
sold his property secretly to a rival town syndicate, 
digging, thereby, his social grave. His home town 
never forgot this traitorous action and he lived for 
years a life of seclusion, a social outcast. Such is the 
history, such the tragedy of the town’s only manufac¬ 
turing activity. 

Every aspect of the place breathes peace and tran- 


io 4 THE QUITTER 

quillity. Happy youngsters play in the parks. Along 
the highways slick motor cars hum. From the rail¬ 
road station, the main street winds its way up hill and 
over a double line of trolley tracks; the cars toil up¬ 
ward and out into the country beyond. The village 
is at the end of the railroad and therein lies a distinc¬ 
tion, for here the trains stop, while the hamlets below 
and up toward the distant city must be content with 
trains that only hesitate. 

Presiding over the destinies of its social life, old 

Mrs. Austen holds absolute sway. No one would 

ever venture to question her place, her right to this 

distinction. In matters social her word is law. A 

% 

queen and her court, she gathers about her young 
maids and matrons and those who receive her favor 
count themselves among the lucky mortals of earth. 
Born in the place, living most of her life there, she 
nevertheless shows none of the provincialism which 
might be expected under the circumstances. Travel 
in Europe, a broad outlook on life; these have made 
her much of a cosmopolitan. Her fine old home with 
its wide-spreading oak trees, where in summer flowers 
bloom in marvelous profusion, is the meeting place of 
the socially elect. A widow, she lives in quiet luxury, 
loving life, loving youth, priding herself on her posi¬ 
tion, unassailed, unassailable. . . . 

Every fall the social season was ushered in with the 


THE QUITTER 


* 105 


Autumn Assembly, an institution older than Mrs. 
Austen herself. No one knows just when it was 
started, no one cares: so long as you receive an invi¬ 
tation to subscribe, your social status is secure and 
the local “Who’s Who” might easily be compiled from 
its lists. 

Old lady Austen, scanning through a gold lorgnette 
the typewritten sheet before her, addressed her young 
secretary. “Dear, dear,” she sighed, “it’s getting to 
be a long list, isn’t it? How many names are there, 
Miss Antony?” 

“About a hundred and twenty, I think,” the girl 
replied. 

“And most of them are married couples, so that 
means over two hundred people, doesn’t it?” 

Miss Antony nodded. “There are some new 
names, you remember?” 

“Yes, that’s what adds zest to the thing after all, 
these new people, one has to be so careful nowadays.” 
Slowly she ran her eyes down the column, then: 
“Hallowed? Yes, I remember, Grace Marchmand’s 
friends. They live in that renovated house over by 
the hill road, well . . .” 

The secretary broke in. “They are members of 
the Golf Club.” 

“Oh bother—that! There’s no social standing 


io6 


THE QUITTER 


there. Didn’t I meet her somewhere, though?” 

“Mrs. Trevor’s tea?” suggested Miss Antony. 

“That’s it. I recall Mrs. Hallowed now, a nervous 
little woman, a wren-like creature. Of course, I can 
see her distinctly. She wears queer clothes, old- 
fashioned, isn’t she?” 

Miss Antony disclaimed any intimate knowledge. 
“She dresses a trifle old-fashioned at times, I think, 
but it suits her type.” 

“Does, eh? Well, so long as I have met her and 
they’re friends of the Marchmands, we’ll leave them 
on the list. Are there any other new names that we 
ought to discuss?” 

“I think you have had them all.” 

“We have a big day before us, so hurry along with 
your work. Get all those envelopes ready. Let me 
see the first few you finish and when they’re ready give 
them to John and ask him to mail them at the Post 
Office. Be sure he mails them there. I don’t want 
half of them to stick in the mail box and not be 
delivered until Christmas, like they were last year; it’s 
embarrassing.” 

The secretary took the list, walking slowly away. 

“Sarah Antony,” said Mrs. Austen to nobody in 
particular, “if you continue to slow down, what will 
you be at my age? "Goodness! Well, you have a 
kind heart anyhow and that’s something.” 


THE QUITTER 


107 


Thus was a new name added to the Rockledge 
Holy of Holiesthus was the Hallowell social 
standing secured. 


hi 

Grace and Jimmy moving out to Rockledge some 
two years before had instantly pronounced the place 
delightful. 

“You never saw a better golf course,” Jimmy had 
assured Craig. “Sporty, but too hard.” 

“It will have to be pretty easy for me to get en¬ 
thusiastic over,” Craig told him. 

“Oh bosh!” insisted Jimmy. “When you once get 
out there and into the spirit of the thing, you’ll play 
more and your game will improve; mine has.” 

But it took more than promises of a wonderful 
golf course to move the Hallo wells. Spending a few 
week-ends in the town, their home in the suburbs of 
the great city seemed strangely small and constricted 
when they returned. 

“It’s lovely out there,” Dora had confessed. “And 
I’m getting tired of things here. The people are so un¬ 
interesting. I miss Grace and the new families mov¬ 
ing in are mostly nobodies.” 

Craig disliked the thought of a change and so they 
went through another winter, arguing the question and 
never getting anywhere. 


io8 


THE QUITTER 


Spring came and Freddy, delicate as always, was 
taken down with a fever. 

“This boy ought to be out of doors more,” the doc¬ 
tor told them. “He needs lots of fresh air and sun¬ 
shine and the summer is too short to give him all he 
should get. Fresh air and sunshine, there’s nothing 
like that prescription for a growing youngster. Why 
don’t you settle in some real suburban place ?” 

After that, things happened quickly. Freddy had 
decided the great question for them as he seemed to be 
deciding most questions. Craig bought an old house 
in Rockledge and Dora, with the help of a young and 
enthusiastic architect, remodeled it and renovated the 
grounds. They sold their house near the city and 
moved to their new home early in September. 

Craig, uncertain as to the advisability of the break, 
found after a few weeks that he wholly liked it. The 
trip back and forth every day to New York was not 
so bad and week-ends with golf and other things that 
life in the country afforded, appealed to him greatly. 
Grace gave a tea for Dora; Jimmy laid himself out for 
Craig at the Golf Club. 


IV 

Returning from the city one afternoon, Craig found 
his wife in an unusually jubilant mood. 


THE QUITTER 


109 


“What do you think?” she said as he got out of the 
car. “We have arrived!” 

“Arrived? Just what does that signify?” 

She led him into the house and over to her desk, 
where from the drawer she produced a large square 
envelope. He took it from her, a puzzled expression 
on his face. 

“Read it,” she urged. 

He read and smiled. “It doesn’t surprise me 
any.” 

Dora laughed. “You conceited thing, I never 
thought that we would get an invitation to the As¬ 
sembly this year, we have lived here such a short 
time.” 

“But aren’t we nice people; is there any reason why 
we should not be invited?” 

“No, but it’s quite a compliment.” 

“And I suppose we should be duly grateful.” 

“It’s better than you think,” she told him. “Grace 
and Jimmy are giving a dinner before the dance and 
they have invited us.” 

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me either,” he insisted. 
“It’s only just what I would expect them to do. 
Didn’t I tell you the other day that we would be taken 
up, as you call it? Now you see, don’t you, that all 
your worrying was for nothing?” 


no 


THE QUITTER 


“What a marvelous man you are, never worry, 
never fret. Everything always comes out all right, 
doesn’t it?” Her tone was sarcastic. 

He ignored it. “I’m mighty glad for your sake,” 
he said. “And I hope that you’ll have a wonderful 
time.” 

“Me? Why, you’re going too.” 

“Oh yes, but I don’t go wild over this dancing 
thing.” 

“Silly. You will have just as good a time as I 
will—better. It’s much easier for you to meet 
people.” 

“We’ll go. Grace and Jimmy always give wonder¬ 
ful parties. I’m looking forward to it.” 

“I knew you’d be glad,” she said. “You always 
keep telling me that I don’t get enough diversion.” 

“You’re going to be a social butterfly. I’ll have a 
hard time keeping up with you.” 

“No danger of that, but I am getting to like this 
town. I can’t imagine living back there in Fairleigh 
so near the city again.” 

Changing his clothes, Craig was thoughtful. It 
was hard to understand that varying mind of Dora’s. 
This dance would probably be stiff and formal in some 
little stuffy hall, perhaps, where people would tread on 
each other’s feet. Things of that kind were always 


THE QUITTER 


hi 


crowded. He wished that he danced better. His 
wife, if he could judge by what other men told him, 
was a wonderful dancer. Natural grace, perhaps. 
Men had so little of that and, when they did, how im¬ 
possible they always were. 

At dinner Freddy regaled them with his day at 
school. “It’s a peachy place, Dad. You ought to 
come up some morning. Friday mornings we always 
have somebody speak to us. Why don’t you come up 
and talk? We’ve got a fine athletic field, too, and the 
coach is dandy. Our football squad’s a great bunch. 
I wish that I could play football.” 

His father glanced across the table at his small, 
white face: would he ever play that rough game ? 

“But you will play some day. I’ll buy you a foot¬ 
ball suit. It’s a game of skill, brute force doesn’t al¬ 
ways win.” 

Freddy smiled a wan little smile. “Oh yes, it does. 
They shove you about and they fall all over you. 
Charlie Somers is our best player and he weighs a 
hundred and forty pounds, and the other day, when he 
was playing, he got all mussed up, too.” 

Dora’s eyes widened. The thought of darling 
Freddy in such a situation made her shudder. “Don’t 
you want to eat your dinner? she asked anxiously. 
“You’ve hardly touched a thing.” 


112 THE QUITTER 

“I’d like to talk about football. Did you ever play, 
Dad?” 

Craig cleared his throat. “No, I never played. I 
worked my way through college, I didn’t have much 
time for games.” 

“Well, I would never go to college if I couldn’t play 
football,” the boy announced firmly. “And when I’m 
big . . ” 

“Eat your dinner,” commanded Dora. “Don’t get 
him so excited, Craig, he never eats anything when his 
mind is upset.” 

“Aw,” said Freddy, “I’d rather talk about football 
any time than eat.” 

“I know there are many things you would rather do 
than that,” Craig suggested, “but if you don’t eat good 
nourishing food you never can do any of them. To 
play football you must eat and get big and strong.” 

The child did not reply, but he looked his disdain. 
Always they kept telling him he must get big and 
strong. 

After dinner in the library, he sat before the fire, a 
small, pensive figure. 

“What are you thinking about?” his father asked 
him. 

“Oh, just thinking. Isn’t it funny how when you 
look at the fire you can see all kinds of things, castles, 


THE QUITTER 113 

faces; I wonder why it is? I love an open fire, don’t 
you ? I guess everybody likes to look at fires. 
Night’s a nice time,” he went on. “I like the night, 
all cold and dark outside and here the fire warm and 
snug.” 

“You like the night,” Craig interposed. “But you 
never want to go to bed, do you?” 

Freddy made a grimace. “No, never!” he said 
firmly. 

“But you need sleep you know and . . .” 

“Oh, I know what you are going to say. You want 
to tell me that I need the sleep so I can get big and 
strong, isn’t that so?” 

“I suppose you do get tired of hearing that all the 
time. But my Dad always kept telling me the same 
thing.” 

“Of course, all daddies tell their sons something 
like it,” Freddy observed. “They keep telling them 
all the time, but they don’t always believe what they 
tell, do they?” 

Dora looked over at her husband and there was a 
laugh in her eyes. Craig realized that he must hold 
his prestige. 

“Why of course they believe it. Whatever put such 
an idea into your head?” 

Freddy shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know!” 


THE QUITTER 


114 

“Isn’t it time that you were going to bed?” Craig 
asked, anxious to be rid of a conversation which 
seemed to be developing tight corners. 

“Now there you go!” the boy exclaimed. “Just as 
we are having a nice talk you want to pack me off.” 

“Come here and kiss your mother good-night,” said 
Dora, “it’s long past your bedtime.” 

He got up, advancing slowly toward her. She 
folded him in a fond embrace, kissing him affection¬ 
ately, while he struggled to free himself. Then he 
went over to his father’s chair. Craig kissed him. 

“Good-night, Son,” he said, “sleep tight and don’t 
let . . .” 

“The bedbugs bite,” finished Freddy. “I never 
saw a bedbug, did you?” 

“No, I never did,” his father assured him, “and I 
hope I never shall.” 

The boy ambled from the room. “You will come 
up, Mum, won’t you?” he called from the hall. 

“Yes and see how quickly you can get undressed. 
No reading, remember.” 

Deliberately he mounted the stairs, running his hand 
along the banister as he went. 

“Whimsical again,” Craig observed, when Freddy 
was out of hearing. 

“He does stump you at times, doesn’t he ?” 

“He’s a wise little owl.” 4 


THE QUITTER 


115 

Dora sighed. “I can hardly realize that he’s ten 
years old. Do you remember that first summer at 
Bay Crest?” 

“You’ve always worried needlessly, haven’t you?” 
Craig said. “And now look at him. He’s as normal 
as any other boy.” 


CHAPTER II 


As Craig left for the city the morning of the Aus¬ 
ten dance, Dora said to him: “Get home in good 
time tonight, please do. You’ve been so irregular 
lately, I hardly know what to expect.” 

“I don’t believe I’ll have a very exacting day,” he 
told her. “You can depend upon it I’ll be on hand 
plenty early enough.” 

“Grace said dinner was to be at a quarter to eight.” 

“Then I’ll be sure to be here. Tell you what, meet 
me at the station and we’ll ride up as far as the look¬ 
out and leave the car and walk back through the 
woods. I believe it’s going to be a wonderful evening.” 

“If you won’t keep me out too late, I’ll meet you, 
but I don’t want to be hurried after I get home and ar¬ 
rive at Grace’s all tired out.” 

He swung into the car, waving his hand to her as he 
passed through the gate. 

In the smoker he met Jimmy. 

“Don is coming out tonight,” Marchmand said. 
“And Grace has invited Elizabeth Turner.” 

“I hear he’s quite interested in her,” Craig said. 
ii 6 


THE QUITTER 


ii 7 

“Yes, he’s as crazy as he is about any girl. He’s 
an enigma; sometimes I think he doesn’t care a rap 
about women and then . . .” 

“It’s a long time since I have seen Don.” 

“He’s the same as ever,” Jimmy assured him. “But 
I honestly believe he is hit this time.” 

“You mean Elizabeth?” 

“Yes, this is real.” 

“Funny, I can’t seem to imagine him as a married 
man.” 

“Oh, he’ll fit in the picture all right. He ought 
to get married, he has butted around alone, long 
enough.” 

“I’ll be interested to see him with this Miss Turner.” 

“Don’t kid him,” warned Jimmy. “Grace is set on 
making a match.” 

Craig whistled softly. “Oh, so that’s it? Well, 
I hope she can accomplish her purpose.” 

“Grace is a wonder,” Marchmand enthused. 
“Never saw anybody like her. She’s always got peo¬ 
ple worked off in pairs in her own mind, a regular 
match-maker.” 

“Do you think that Don has any suspicions about 
it?” 

“Suspicions! Say, let me tell you, I’m almost sure 
that he and Grace have cooked the whole thing up 
between them. Don doesn’t care very much for 


n8 


THE QUITTER 


dancing, never did, but, well . . . Elizabeth was 
asked and the next thing Don was begging for an 
invitation.” 

Out over the meadows the train was speeding. 
Long grass, once green and brilliant in the dress of 
summer, stood withered and brown, stretching away 
into the distance, swayed by a gentle breeze. 

“These meadows,” Craig remarked, “there’s some¬ 
thing very picturesque about ’em. Look at those 
shades of brown and those deep grays. Somebody 
ought to paint that picture.” 

“Paint it if you want to. You’re new at this com¬ 
muting thing,” Jimmy said a bit disgustedly. “When 
you have been at it as long as I have, you won’t see 
the lovely browns and grays, but you will notice some 
unusual odors.” 

“It’s the factories that are responsible for that, 
don’t blame the poor old meadows.” 

“Whatever it is,” Jimmy insisted, “there’s no inspi¬ 
ration in the sight of them for me.” 

Crossing over on the ferry, the New York sky-line 
stood out in bold relief. The river sparkled in the 
morning sunlight, a salty breeze blew in from away 
toward the ocean. Staunch little tug boats, puffing 
globes of steam into the air, strained with ponderous 
towloads. 


THE QUITTER 


119 

“I always like this trip on the ferry when the 
weather is fine,” Craig was saying. 

“It’s all right now and perhaps for the next few 
weeks, but in the winter, give me the tube; foul, but 
warm.” 

They walked up from the slip together, parting at 
Broadway. 

“See you tonight,” Marchmand called. “Don’t be 
formal, get there any old time.” 

Craig dodged a swerving taxi and gained the side¬ 
walk on the other side. 


11 

Walking down Broadway to his lunch club, lurid 
posters, hung high above the sidewalk, met his gaze. 
A huge crowd had collected, blocking traffic and forc¬ 
ing pedestrians to take to the middle of the street. He 
stopped to read the dispatches, going over the lists of 
dead and wounded with a shudder. “Germans Take 
Yser,” he read in letters six inches high. “French 
Holding Out Along the Aisne Salient.” 

“War, how horrible it is,” he said and suddenly 
realized that he had spoken out loud. 

A man in the crowd looked up. “You bet it’s hor¬ 
rible. I went to Cuba in eighteen ninety-eight and 
that mess wasn’t a spoonful to what’s happening in 
Europe.” 


120 THE QUITTER 

“But they will never win out. Civilization couldn’t 
stand that.” 

“Civilization!” the man cried, coughing, while his 
whole body racked with the exertion. “What’s that 
got to do with it? This isn’t civilized warfare. 
What about poor Belgium, a neutral country? Ger¬ 
many isn’t civilized, they’re crazy with lust of con¬ 
quest, it’s only a beginning.” Then looking Craig 
over from head to foot. “You’ve never been in a bat¬ 
tle, have you?” 

He shook his head. 

“I thought as much. It makes me laugh when any¬ 
body talks about civilized warfare. There isn’t such a 
thing. All war is uncivilized.” He spoke with deep 
feeling, his face was red, the cords in his neck stood 
out. 

A traffic policeman coming along dispersed the mass 
of people, clearing a way along the street and, in the 
confusion, Craig lost track of his talkative friend. It 
made an impression on him, though: this man from 
out of nowhere, seeming to know so much about war 
and its horrors and carrying in his whole bearing the 
marks of one who had suffered. 

The round table, at the Octagon Club, was an old 
institution and every day men of diverse interests 
gathered there. Craig always enjoyed this hour of 


THE QUITTER 


121 


relaxation from the cares of his business. Today 
every place but one was taken when he arrived, so he 
sat down, completing the circle. 

“Hello/’ said Van Intern, a fat, red-faced man with 
a bald head and gold-rimmed glasses. “You’ve 
come just in time to get into a darned interesting 
discussion.” 

Hallowell looked around the table, while Van In¬ 
tern continued. “That’s why I say hands off in Eu¬ 
rope, let ’em fight it out. Here . . And he dove 
into one of the pockets of his coat, pulling out a card 
and throwing it on the table. “I’m putting these 
things up all over my office.” 

Craig picked up the bit of cardboard, bright red let¬ 
ters on a black background: “Nix on the War Talk, 
I’m Busy!” It passed from hand to hand. 

“That’s good stuff, Van,” a man across the table 
said, “and it’s just my idea of this mess. This war 
talk makes me sick, business is booming and we should 
worry/’ 

Sitting next to him was a small man, a little dried- 
up fellow. He looked at fat Van while he smiled 
a thin smile. “Your business is good, too, isn’t it, 
Van?” he asked quietly. 

“Fine! Since the war started back in August, 
we’ve been humming, all export stuff.” 

“Export stuff, yes, war stuff,” said the little man. 


122 


THE QUITTER 


“I suppose so. I’m a machine tool manufacturer.” 

“Machine tools being used to fashion engines of 
destruction and . . 

The man across the table broke in. “Well, what 
are you worrying about? He’s selling the French 
Government same as I am. Our stuff is helping to 
whip the Germans.” 

“All well and good. I’m not questioning that point. 
Nobody wants to see Germany licked any more than 
I do; I’m Scotch. But when you say: ‘Nix on the 
War Talk’ and then follow it up by telling us that you 
are helping to win the war, well . . .” 

“Oh, Billy, you always take the opposite side,” Van 
protested. “What’s the harm in making a bit of 
money out of this thing if we can? It will soon be 
over.” 

The little man shook his head sadly. “There’s 
where you’re way off. It’s only just beginning and 
before it’s over that little red card of yours won’t be so 
very popular.” 

“Let’s make a rule right now,” somebody suggested, 
“that we won’t get into war discussions at this table. 
It’s darned unpleasant. We all have our views but 
we can air them somewhere else. There are plenty of 
other things to talk about.” 

Billy rose to go. “All right, give up the war, keep 
away from it if you can, but it strikes me that it’s go- 


THE QUITTER 


123 


ing to be such a big topic of conversation in the next 
few months, that we can’t side-step it even if we want 
to.” 

“He’s a queer one,” Van observed to Craig, “the 
most obstinate little beggar I ever saw.” 

Craig returned to his office. The crowd was still 
packed in a dense mass about the bulletin boards. 
The air was charged with suppressed excitement. It 
was hard to keep his mind on work that afternoon; 
the picture of the broken man in the crowd around 
the bulletins and little Billy at the club kept recurring to 
him. What diverse ideas were developing over the 
great conflict, how positive everybody was in their 
own stand. He was relieved when closing time came; 
the thought of the Marchmand party and the dance 
was something pleasant to look forward to, a little 
frivolity; it would be delightful. 

On the way to the ferry, he purchased a bunch of 
orchids, purple ones, for Dora. She always liked the 
purple best. Carrying them on the boat he felt 
strangely conspicuous. The paper parcel was a large 
one, he didn’t often carry home things of this sort; 
it made him feel awkward, ill at ease. The boy from 
whom he bought his newspaper at the entrance to the 
slip, gave him his usual greeting, glancing down at the 
package, and Craig imagined that he snickered just 


124 


THE QUITTER 


a little. In the train he held them stiffly on his lap. 
They fell on the floor five times when he opened the 
sheets of his newspaper. 

Dora was not waiting at the station. She could 
not come, so the chauffeur said. He didn’t know 
the reason why. She was not ill, something about 
Freddy, he thought. They swung up the hill and at 
the observatory Craig sent the man along home, telling 
him to give the flowers to Dora. Craig walked in the 
twilight. 

There had been heavy frost the preceding night. 
Leaves fell softly, as he wandered along. The trees 
were taking on a strange nakedness. A thin, pungent 
odor filled the air, the smoky smell of late fall. His 
thoughts were moody; why hadn’t Dora met him? 
It was a little thing, perhaps, but life was made up of 
just these small matters after all. She never seemed 
to want to do any more the things that he most de¬ 
sired. She was spoiling Freddy too, he knew it. 
And his thoughts flashed back to the night of the lit¬ 
tle one’s first birthday: Aunt Agatha had told him 
that he was far too easy with his wife. Agatha, 
funny old woman; she was gone now. He had never 
cared for her very much, but sometimes he wished 
that she were still alive, she seemed to have a soothing 
influence over Dora. Was he too easy, did Dora rule 
him? . . . 


THE QUITTER 


125 


It was very peaceful in the quiet of the woods and 
he almost wished that they weren’t going to the dance. 
Night had fallen when he got back to the summit of 
the hill and down below, in the semi-darkness, myriads 
of lights twinkled. The sky was blue gray and in the 
distance a thin mist was rising. Wisps of cloud re¬ 
flected still the pale colors of a departed sunset. Out 
of the west a strong wind was rising. Slowly he de¬ 
scended the winding road, the white fence skirting its 
outer edge, looking like some ghostly phantom. When 
he reached his house the stars were shining in a clear 
sky. 


in 

Freddy was at the door to greet him. “Eve had my 
supper. I thought that you were never coming home.” 

He bent down and kissed his son. “Why, you might 
have gone out with me. It was a lovely walk through 
the woods. Did you have a good supper ?” 

The boy nodded. “Will you play a game of check¬ 
ers with me, Daddy?” 

“One game, we’re going out to dinner later. 
Where’s your mother?” 

“Upstairs, dressing. I know where you’re going, 
to the Marchmands’ and after that to a dance. But 
you’ve got plenty of time to play with me, haven’t 
you?” 


126 


THE QUITTER 


Dora called from the second floor landing: “Is 
that you, Craig? I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at the 
train. Don’t delay too long now, remember you’ve 
got to get dressed.” 

In the library Freddy hauled out the checker board, 
placing it on a card table. 

“Which color do you want?” he asked as though 
the matter were something of great importance. 
“Black or white?” 

“It doesn’t make a bit of difference to me,” his fa¬ 
ther assured him. “You choose.” 

“All right, I’ll take white, I’m always lucky with 
them.” 

The youngster was a keen player and his father, 
with his mind wandering far from the board before 
him, found himself at the end of a few moves in a 
very tight corner. 

Freddy was jubilant. “There,” he exclaimed, “no 
matter what you do, I can jump two of your men.” 

Craig studied the positions now, he had been caught 
napping. Putting the best possible face on the matter, 
he moved one of the pieces and his son, in high glee, 
jumped two black men, putting them on his own side. 
He had two kings and his father had none. It was 
beginning to look very one-sided. 

“You’re trying hard, aren’t you, Dad?” the boy 
asked. “You aren’t letting me win?” 


THE QUITTER 


127 


“No indeed, I am playing just as hard as I can.” 
Why hadn’t Dora met him? ... A few more moves 
and it was all in the boy’s hands. 

“That’s great!” he cried. “I beat you fairly, didn’t 
I?” 

“You certainly did, you are getting to be very 
clever.” 

“Yes, I think I am,” Freddy said with perfect can¬ 
dor. “But I don’t believe that you had your mind on 
the game. You were thinking of other things, busi¬ 
ness or something, weren’t you?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. You acted sort of far away. 
Come on, let’s play another.” 

“I can’t do that now, I’ve got to dress. . . .” 

“Aw please, just one.” 

Craig got up from the table. “No, that’s all for 
tonight,” he said, firmly. 

“You’re mean, you’re mean!” the boy cried, sweep¬ 
ing the checker men from the board with a wide swing 
of his arm. “Why won’t you play another?” 

His father was somewhat taken aback, he had not 
expected this. “I told you,” he said slowly, “that I 
had to get dressed.” 

“You don’t like to play with me, you just let me 
win, that’s what you do, let me win. You know I 
can’t play as well as you can. . , f ” 


128 


THE QUITTER 


“For pity’s sake,” Craig urged. “Don’t go on like 
that. You beat me fair enough, be a little man and 
stop this nonsense.” 

Freddy buried his head in the pillows on the couch 
muffling his voice, while he kicked his feet in the 
air. 

Dora, her hair down, eyes flashing, swept into the 
room. “I might have known it,” she said bitterly. 
“Just when I thought that I had him nicely quieted 
down. Craig, what have you been doing?” 

He tried to restrain his temper. “Doing? Why 
nothing. We just played a very exciting game of 
checkers and he beat me badly. He wanted to play 
another game, but I told him I had to go and get 
dressed and now . . .” 

“You excite him,” Dora blazed. “He was all up¬ 
set this morning at school. I had to go up there when 
he went back after lunch. They don’t understand 
him; I’ve been with him now all afternoon, that’s why 
I didn’t meet you. 

“Freddy,” she urged, going over to the screaming 
child, “Freddy, stop this. You mustn’t do it, it will 
make you sick. Never mind what your father says, 
he didn’t mean it. Get up, be a little gentleman.” 

Slowly the squirming legs ceased their kicking, he 
raised a tear-stained face. “Well, he wouldn’t play 
another g— . . .” 


THE QUITTER 129 

Craig interposed. “No, I would not and I told you 
the reason.” 

“Aw gee,” Freddy cried and swung out of the room. 

“Eve had a bad day,” Dora said. “That school; 
well, I told them a few things about our boy and I 
guess they will treat him differently after this.” 

“What was it all about?” 

“Oh goodness, I don’t think you would comprehend 
it if I told you. You don’t understand him any bet¬ 
ter than they do. Look at this,” surveying the checker 
men strewn helter-skelter over the floor. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” he insisted. “I never was 
so surprised in my life; I thought we were having a 
wonderful time and just because . . 

“It’s the way you do it. He’s a nervous child. 
You don’t know what nerves mean, men never do.” 

“This is all a pack of nonsense,” he insisted. “I 
wasn’t a bit cross with him.” 

“Oh well, let’s not discuss it any more, you’ve got 
to hurry. Your things are all laid out.” 

In his room, fussing with a refractory dress shirt, 
he wished that they might stay at home. This fracas 
over Freddy had taken all the joy out of the evening 
for him. 

“Plague take these beastly stiff shirts!” he growled. 
“I don’t see why men are condemned to wear such aw¬ 
ful clothes.” 


13 ° 


THE QUITTER 


“Please stop it, my nerves are all unstrung, I can’t 
stand much more.” 

“Well, I feel anything but comfortable,” he grunted. 

She took no notice of his remark. “I told Thomas 
that you would drive the car,” she said. “We’ll be 
out late and there’s no use keeping him up.” 

Before the mirror he was intent on tying a very 
neat and small white evening tie. Pie wondered why 
she had not mentioned the orchids; she must have re¬ 
ceived them. 

“You haven’t told me how you like my dress,” she 
said suddenly. 

He looked at her keenly and, for the first time, 
noticed that she was dressed in, well, something or 
other, for with the usual impatience of men in small 
matters, he had for the last few minutes been totally 
oblivious of everything save the fussiness which 
seemed to be his lot. 

“It’s all right,” he observed, giving her a sweeping 
glance from golden head to silver slippered feet. “Is 
it new?” 

She bridled. “You make me laugh, all the appreci¬ 
ation I get. Why, of course it is. You don’t suppose 
that I would go to this first dance in Rockledge in an 
old gown, do you?” 

He hastened to make amends. “That’s so, of 
course not. It’s darn pretty I’ll say, and you look 


THE QUITTER 131 

wonderful in it, long time since you have worn black, 
it’s quite becoming.” 

“Fm glad you like it. You really do, don’t you?” 

“Gosh, what more can I say? It’s very pretty.” 

At that she seemed satisfied. 

“You got the orchids?” he asked. 

“Yes, and it was nice of you to bring them. I put 
them in the ice-box, they were wilted and I thought it 
would keep them fresher.” 

Wilted, and they had cost him fifteen dollars; 
wilted, she seemed to take it all very coolly. 

Together they descended the stairs. The maid ap¬ 
peared with the flowers, pinning them on Dora’s dress 
while she stood before the hall mirror. 

“They do look nice, don’t they?” she said. 

Nice, thought Craig, nice, well . . . 

“Where’s Freddy?” she asked the girl. 

“Out in the kitchen, ma’am. I’ll get him.” 

But at that moment he appeared in the dining room 
door, his face aglow, eyes sparkling. “Thomas and 
I have been playing a new game,” he announced, you 
play it with matches.” 

His mother kissed him. “Be a good boy, won t 
you?” she admonished. “And Mary, see that he gets 
to bed in good season.” 

“I hope you have a good time,’ he called after them. 
“See you in the morning.” 


132 


THE QUITTER 


Craig helped Dora into the car; how helpless and 
fragile women in evening dress were. Taking his 
seat at the wheel, he swung out of the driveway and 
into the street. 


CHAPTER III 


The Marchmands’ house was on the other side of 
town, set back from a broad avenue. The grounds 
were spacious. A long curving drive bordered by 
giant trees led up from the street. Craig shifted gears 
to make the somewhat steep grade, grinding up the 
driveway and under the porte-cochere. Another 
car was already there, parked at the back of the 
drive. 

‘Tm afraid we’re early,” said Dora as she stepped 
out. “I wonder whose car that is?” 

”1 think it’s Don Walden’s new Packard,” Craig 
said. “He just got one the other day, so Jimmy said. 
It’s a sporty little coupe, isn’t it?” He backed around 
close to the Packard, his wife waiting for him on the 
steps and when he came over, she rang the bell. A 
maid opened the door and they went inside. 

Grace Marchmand was an artist at decoration, and 
the house showed her fine taste. The spacious hall, 
done in ivory white, walls hung with gray paper, had 
about it a wonderful feeling of comfort and hominess. 
There was no jarring note. A curving stairway lead¬ 
ing to a balcony, from which the stairs continued in 
133 


134 


THE QUITTER 


a long sweeping line to the floors above, was carpeted 
with a full-napped carpet of a shade slightly darker 
than the wall coverings. Rose-tinted hangings at the 
windows, two small oil paintings, old flower pieces on 
the walls, it was a perfect harmony of tone. 

Dora sighed. “What a lovely home it is.” 

The hostess herself appeared. “I’m so glad you’ve 
come,” she said, kissing Dora affectionately. “Do 
you want to leave your things upstairs or—Here,” to 
the maid, “take Mrs. Hallowell’s wrap.” 

“Hello there,” Jimmy exclaimed, coming out of the 
dining room, cocktail shaker in his hand. “You’re 
just in time, I’m mixing a good one. Don’s inside,. 
I’ll be with you in a minute.” 

They passed into the drawing room, where Walden 
was in deep conversation with a girl. He rose as they 
entered. 

“Craigie, I am glad to see you,” he said. “And 
Dora, looking younger than ever. Doesn’t seem pos¬ 
sible you’ve been married—what is it ?—fifteen 
years?” He introduced them to Miss Turner, fair¬ 
haired, slim and graceful, with a small doll-like face 
and big blue eyes. Don ran on: “Elizabeth, I want 
you to know these people well, they’re old friends of 
mine. Craig, here, went to college with me and don’t 
let him frighten you, he isn’t nearly as serious as he 
looks.” 


THE QUITTER 135 

Miss Turner smiled. “He doesn’t look very for¬ 
midable.” 

“Grace asked me out here to the dance,” Walden 
continued, “and poor Elizabeth is just bored to 
death with me, aren’t you?” 

Miss Turner lifted her small shoulders slightly. 
“Oh, not terribly,” she said and flicked the ash from 
a cigarette with a practiced little finger. 

Walden smirked. “You’re awfully clever, Beth.” 

Craig felt stiff and formal, he was never at his best 
in situations of this sort and he was relieved when 
Grace moved toward the doorway to greet another 
couple. 

“Nancy,” she said, “what a stunning gown. It’s 
frightfully becoming, I’ve never seen anything so 
lovely. Hello, Arthur!” 

And turning to the Hallowells: “Let me introduce 
you.” 

Arthur Emerson, a small man, red faced with a dark 
Van Dyke beard and thick horn-rimmed glasses, shook 
hands heartily. “I’m glad to know you,” he said. 
“Heard about you from Jimmy. It’s fine that you’ve 
come to Rockledge. We think it’s a pretty nifty place 
here. Howdy, Don! Hello, Elizabeth.” 

Craig acknowledged the introduction, his eyes fixed 
on Mrs. Emerson. Never, he thought, had he seen 
a more beautiful woman. She was very dark with a 


136 


THE QUITTER 


pale olive skin and in the gown which caused such ex¬ 
clamations from Grace made a lovely picture. Her 
dress was dark blue, shot with tiny spangles which 
sparkled, throwing out dull lights with every move¬ 
ment of her flexible body. The bodice, cut low and 
made sleeveless, revealed in all their beauty, a pair of 
graceful arms and a full rounded bosom and shoulders. 
About her neck hung a long string of pearls. Her 
face, placid and almost sad in repose, when speaking 
was full of animation. Rarely had he taken more 
than passing interest in other women, but now. . . . 
She was speaking to him. 

“You like Rockledge?” she asked, looking into his 
eyes with a frankness which was altogether charming. 

“Yes indeed,” he replied somewhat stiffly, “we’re 
growing to love it.” 

“You haven’t lived here very long, have you?” 

“No, only about two months. It’s wonderfully 
beautiful in the fall, isn’t it?” 

“Lovely, but it’s beautiful any time. Our winters 
are delightful, too.” 

Jimmy broke in with cocktails. “Hello, Bobs,” he 
cried, rushing up to Mrs. Emerson with such an excess 
of enthusiasm that he nearly upset the tray. “You 
look like a million dollars, honestly you do! Have 
one of these, I made them from a formula that Don 
worked out and they’ve got some kick.” 


THE QUITTER i 37 

Ci* a ig passed a fragile glass to her. She hesitated 
a moment. 

“Well, try it, will you? ,, Jimmy urged. 

“Oh,” she said, “you want to test them out on me, 
do you?” And raising it to her lips, she took a 
sip. “It’s wonderful, Jimmy, you’re right about the 
kick too. It seems awfully strong. Try one, Mr. 
Hallowell.” 

“Knew you’d appreciate it,” Marchmand said and 
passed over to the others. 

Nancy sampled hers again. 

“You don’t really care much for cocktails, do you?” 
Craig ventured. 

She shook her head. “They’re terribly fattening. 
Might I have a smoke?” 

He fumbled with his case. “Of course, I beg your 
pardon.” 

She took the cigarette, tapping it on the back of her 
hand, while he lit a match and held it for her. 

“Thanks,” she murmured, breathing in with relish. 
“I do love to smoke.” 

He was thinking to himself how delicately she 
did it. 

“Here you two,” Don called from across the room. 
“Bobs, you haven’t said good evening to me yet. 
Where are your manners? Come over and join the 
old folks and stop twosing with my college pal.” 


138 THE QUITTER 

They walked toward the group around the glowing 
fire. 

“Why, Bobs, you’ve hardly touched your cocktail,” 
Jimmy exclaimed. “What’s the matter with it? I 
thought you said you liked it.” 

“It’s too fattening for her,” Arthur Emerson said. 
“She’s dieting, you know. Fair, fat and forty with 
the accent on the fat, eh Nancy?” 

Somehow Craig felt that he was not going to like 
Arthur Emerson. There was in his speech, it seemed, 
a little that was coarse, though it wasn’t so much what 
he said as the way he said it. 

Nancy laughed it off gaily. “I wouldn’t talk about 
fat if I were you, Arthur. Now I ask you all, isn’t he 
just too fat?” 

Emerson ran his hands over a generous paunch. 
“The old girl’s right, I guess.” 

Dinner was announced. 

“Let’s not be formal,” Grace said. “Arthur, you 
sit on my left. Craig, come over here, I want you to 
sit there at my right. There’s only one rule, you 
know. Husbands are not allowed to sit next to their 
wives.” 

Craig found himself between Grace and Nancy. 
Don slid into the chair beside Elizabeth with Dora on 
the other side. 

In the center of the table stood an unusual looking 


THE QUITTER 139 

center-piece, a tiny Christmas tree on a round base 
of some dark colored metal. 

Grace turned to Craig. “Just reach over there, will 
you, and touch the little button on the bottom of the 
pedestal,” she said. “There, that’s right.” 

“Look out!” Don warned from across the table, “it 
may go off.” 

A soft tinkling tune and the little Christmas tree 
began to slowly revolve. 

“Grace, she’s dotty about that thing,” said Jimmy. 
“Though I don’t see just why we have a Christmas 
tree before Thanksgiving. How about it, Grade?” 

“I think it’s lovely,” Dora said. “I’ve never seen 
one of them before. Where did you get it?” 

Jimmy gave his wife a keen look. “Now you’re 
caught; that came from Germany, Dora . . .” 

“And isn’t it typical of them,” Arthur Emerson 
broke in. “Clever people, a marvelous race, they’ll 
conquer the world yet. Who but a German would 
have thought of that ingenious thing now? Kris 
Kringle means a lot to the Teuton. They’re senti¬ 
mental folk over there.” 

“You would almost think that Arthur was a born 
son of the kaiser, wouldn’t you?” Nancy observed to 
Craig. “He hasn’t a drop of German blood in his 
veins, though. He was born on the island of 
Nantucket, of good old New England stock, too.” 


140 


THE QUITTER 


“I can’t enthuse over anything German,” Don 
assured them, “when I think of what’s going on 
over there now. Belgium, a neutral country. What 
right has any nation in these enlightened days to run 
riot the way Germany is doing?” 

“Have you ever been in Europe?” Arthur said, 
looking at him with a quizzical expression. 

Don shook his head. 

“Then don’t judge them too harshly. What do we 
know about European politics? Over there, they not 
only speak a different language, they think differently. 
It’s a muddle now, a survival of the fittest. Any one 
of the other nations of Europe would have done what 
Germany is doing to Belgium had the necessity arisen. 
War isn’t a parlor game.” 

“I don’t agree with you,” Walden insisted. 
“France never would have committed those atrocities. 
But the Teutons are cruel. Efficiency, that’s been 
their slogan. Darn efficiency, I say, when it produces 
such horrors. It takes the heart, the soul, out of 
everything. Germany has no soul, she’s war mad, run 
amuck, seeing red. But she’ll be crushed, beaten, 
ruined and, when it’s all over, will cry like a spoiled 
child. There’s no sporting instinct in a Hun!” He 
clinched his hands about his napkin. 

“Oh come, I say,” said Jimmy, “let’s get off this 
war stuff. There are plenty of other things a darn 


THE QUITTER 141 

sight more interesting. Don’t get so upset, Don, it 
isn’t our fight, you know.” 

Walden grew red about the temples. “I beg your 
pardon, I think I forgot myself, but I feel very deeply 
on that subject. It strikes home to me.” 

Elizabeth laid a hand on his arm. “I don’t blame 
you one bit,” she said softly. 

Mrs. Emerson gave her husband a swift flashing 
glance and he said no more. 

Conversation drifted in other directions. Nancy 
talked with Jimmy. Craig was fascinated, admiring 
her beautifully manicured hands with their strong, sup¬ 
ple fingers. She lit another cigarette and passed 
Jimmy’s case on to him. 

“I’m a frightful smoker,” she confessed. 

“Mrs. Hallowell has never taken it up,” he said. 
“Sometimes I wish that she wquld, they say it’s good 
for the nerves.” 

“You’re quite a liberal minded husband, aren’t you? 
Most men, I think, hate to have their wives smoke.” 

“Does Mr. Emerson object?” he blurted out 
bluntly. 

“Arthur? Why no, I smoked long before I met 
him, he’s quite used to it now.” 

Craig wondered why she was in a way apologizing 
to him for smoking. Was he a man who looked as 
though he were old-fashioned, narrow-minded? That 


142 


THE QUITTER 


must be it, she appeared such a woman of the world. 
He was a trifle old-fogyish to her, she was trying to 
put him at his ease. 

“You’re fond of horseback riding, I hear.” 

He roused himself from a half reverie. “Yes, I 
enjoy it, I’m riding every morning. It’s wonderful 
this autumn weather. Do you ride?” 

“Sometimes. There was at one time quite an in¬ 
terest in horses here; we had a riding club. But since 
the automobiles have come, well, I haven’t ridden in a 
long, long time. I would be almost afraid to get on 
a horse now.” 

“Why, you ought not to give it up,” he urged. “I 
think it’s the finest exercise in the world.” Then sud¬ 
denly and he could not for the life of him tell why he 
did it: “I would love to have you ride with me some 
morning.” 

She looked sharply at him. “That would be nice, if 
I could get up the courage. I haven’t a horse. We 
don’t keep them any more.” 

“I think I can fix that,” he said. “There’s a riding 
school here and some of the mounts aren’t bad at all.” 

“All right. When shall we go?” The question 
came with a suddenness that was a trifle upsetting. 
He had not expected it. She was smiling at him, 
straight white teeth showing over a full curved lower 
lip. 


THE QUITTER 143 

He floundered. “Tomorrow morning,” he sug¬ 
gested blindly. 

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t do. I never get up early 
enough the morning after a dance to do anything very 
strenuous. I’m terribly lazy.” 

He was embarrassed. Why had he been such an 
ass as to suggest tomorrow morning! “I suppose 
that would be rushing it,” he confessed. “But the 
weather is so lovely and it may change any time.” 

She helped him. “How about day after tomorrow? 
I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than a ride 
in the early morning.” 

“We won’t have to make it too early,” he assured 
her. 

“Oh, let’s go early,” she urged, “before the dew is 
off the grass. It will do me good to get up with the 
lark for once.” 

“What are you two up to?” Don called across the 
table. “You’ve had your heads together for the last 
five minutes. Bobs, up to your old tricks! Give 
some of the other girls a chance at him, won’t you?” 

“Look out, Craig,” Jimmy cautioned, “she is a 
frightful vamp. Don’t let her get you in her toils. 

Nancy looked about her. “It’s terrible sometimes 
to be with friends,” she said. “Cramps one’s style.” 

Arthur snickered. “Your style is all right any 
time,” he said. 


144 


THE QUITTER 


Craig glanced at Dora. How childish she seemed, 
how immature! Walden was telling her something, 
she was all interest. He wondered what Don was 
saying! He felt alone and, for a moment, wished 
himself home by his own fireside with a book and a 
comfortable cigar. Out of the corner of his eye he 
watched Nancy Emerson. Her back was turned to¬ 
ward him. What a shapely head and neck, she had, 
what lovely shoulders . . . 

“You haven’t paid me much attention tonight,” 
Grace teased. “But I don’t suppose that I should 
expect anything else with Bobs sitting next to you.” 

He turned quickly. “Why, Grace, I . . .” 

“Oh, don’t apologize. The men are all like that 
when they meet her for the first time. When Jimmy 
was introduced, he went around goggle-eyed like a boy 
of seventeen. He’s still making love to her, in his 
own mind.” 

“She’s a very unusual woman,” Craig said slowly, 
trying to keep his poise. 

Grace nodded. “She’s just as fine as she looks, 
too, true blue. I don’t blame the men for being wild 
about her. If I were a man, well . . .” 

“Have you known the Emersons long?” 

“Since shortly after we came out here. Funny you 
never happened to run across them before, They 


THE QUITTER 


145 

have lived in Rockledge for ages. Arthur was mayor 
once.” 

“Is that a great distinction?” 

“We’re provincial here, I suppose,” she laughed. 
“New Yorkers smile at us.” 

“Mr. Emerson, from the way he talks, seems to 
have traveled a great deal.” 

“He’s quite cosmopolitan.” She looked quizzically 
at him. “You don’t like him, do you?” 

“Isn’t that rather a blunt way of putting it? I’ve 
only just met him this evening, it’s hardly fair to 
judge.” 

“Well, I wish he wouldn’t be so pig-headed about 
the Germans,” she sighed. “It makes such hard feel¬ 
ing. But it’s just like him, he always takes the 
opposite side. I’ve never seen a man who loves so to 
argue.” 

“He’s not the only one who doesn’t think as we do 
about the war. At lunch today I got a side-line on it. 
Curious, the different opinions that seem to be 
developing.” 

“I don’t like to think about it,” Grace said 
emphatically. 

In the drawing room over the coffee Craig had a 
chance to talk to Elizabeth Turner for a few moments. 
She was interesting, this golden-haired girl, and it was 


146 


THE QUITTER 


borne in upon him that Walden might be a lucky 
fellow if he married her. 

“Don’s been telling me all about you,” she was say¬ 
ing. “I didn’t know until tonight that you were at 
Yale together.” 

“I hope he has said something nice about me.” 

“Oh very, but he thinks that you’ve grown much 
more serious than you used to be. Is that so?” 

It was a rather direct, blunt question. He wanted 
to tell her that marriage, his marriage, had not exactly 
made for continuous gaiety, but, hang it all, what a 
thing to come into one’s head. 

“Why,” he replied, “I’m just naturally sober- 
minded, I guess. I hate to think it, but I must be, 
everybody says so. Do you object to serious people, 
Miss Turner?” 

“Dear me, no, I hate folks who always frivol.” 

He felt as though he must find some excuse, some 
reason to justify his seriousness. She was gazing at 
the fire, quite lost, he thought, to everything about 
her. He wondered what was on her mind, just what 
Don had told her. Walden, in his care free way, 
sometimes gave people very false impressions. 

“I’m frivolous,” she confessed suddenly. 

“It’s fascinating in a woman,” he said quietly. 

“There, that was nice of you,” she laughed. “I’m 
afraid you are a gay deceiver.” 


THE QUITTER 


147 


“What’s he talking to you about, Snookums ?” Don 
came over from the other side of the room, two liquor 
glasses in his hand. “Here, Beth, try this.” 

Elizabeth sipped it. “It’s wonderful. What is it ?” 

“Some more of Jimmy’s trick liquor, I forget the 
name. Got a kick like an army mule. Try some, Old 
Serious Face.” And he offered it to Craig. 

“Don, I don’t like the way you say that to him,” 
exclaimed Miss Turner. “Don’t let him treat you so, 
Mr. Hallowell.” 

“I don’t mind,” Craig laughed. 

Walden laid a hand on his shoulder. “That’s 
right,” he said, “you know me, don’t you, old sport?” 

“Well, when you’ve lived with a man for four years 
at college ...” 

“And haven’t committed a bloody murder. Craigie, 
tell me how you like my little Elizabeth here.” 

“You’re impossible, Don,” she cried. “Of all 
the ... I don’t see how I tolerate you.” 

“Oh, you know it’s because I’m just too fascinating, 
Beth. Can’t help yourself, can you?” 

Miss Turner blushed. “Stop your nonsense and 
give me a cigarette.” 

“How many have you smoked today, Beth darling?” 
continued the irrepressible Don. 

“It’s none of your business.” 

“Oh yes, it is,” he insisted. “Young girls shouldn’t 


148 THE QUITTER 

smoke, it’s terribly bad for ’em, makes ’em nervous, 
Oh dreadful!” 

They scuffled for his cigarette case, Craig looking 
silently on. Elizabeth, by a quick turn of the wrist, 
wrested it from her opponent’s firm grasp. She 
opened it, it was empty. Don exploded in fits of 
laughter. Her face was a study. 

“Oh, Beth, you are clever!” he roared. 

“Mr. Hallowell,” she said appealingly, “have you a 
cigarette?” 

Craig handed her his case. 

“Thanks, you’re a gentleman.” 

“That lets me out.” Walden grinned. “But I 
can’t be accused of helping you to an early grave.” 

She lit the cigarette with Craig’s match. Don 
seated himself on the divan beside her. 

“Run along now, Craigie,” he said, “Beth and I 
have a lot to talk about.” 

Grace Marchmand joined them. “If we’re going 
to the dance, isn’t it about time we started?” she asked. 
“It’s almost ten thirty.” 

“Darn it all!” Don wailed. “Just as I get nicely 
settled with a pretty girl, you come over and spoil 
everything.” 

“Want to stay here?” 

“Of course he doesn’t,” Elizabeth said firmly. 


149 


THE QUITTER 

He s just crazy to go and whirl around with some 
of those fascinating debutantes. Come along, Don/’ 
And she took him by the arm. 

“Em taking Mrs. Hallowed,” Arthur Emerson said. 
“Who are you going with, Bobs?” 

Mrs. Emerson, muffled in a long fur coat, stood in 
the doorway. 

“Oh I say,” Jimmy called, “come along with me.” 

Craig wished that he had been a trifle quicker; he 
might just as well have taken Mrs. Emerson himself. 

“Grace,” he ventured, “will you go in my car?’ 

“Yes indeed, I’ll just run up and get my wrap.” 

He waited for her in the hall. The others had gone 
and from the driveway came the sound of purring 
motors. A grandfather’s clock ticked loudly. In the 
dining room, the maids were clearing the table, one of 
them stooped and picked a handkerchief off the floor. 
She came out and handed it to him. 

“One of the ladies must have dropped this, will 
you give it to her, sir?” 

He took the bit of lace in his hand, turning it slowly 
over and over; that strangely sweet perfume, where 
had he ... in one corner he noticed an embroidered 
initial “N”. Just then Grace came downstairs and he 
thrust it quickly into his pocket. 

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” she apologized. “One 


1 5 o THE QUITTER 

of the children was awake and I had to go in for a 
moment.” 


ii 

It was only a short run to the club, an old-fashioned 
building situated just out of the business center of the 
town. In the nearby streets, cars were packed in a 
solid mass and, after leaving Grace, Craig cruised to 
find a parking space. He pulled up in a likely opening, 
only to discover upon locking the ignition switch and 
getting out, that he had.landed squarely in front of a 
fire hydrant, so he got in again and went further up 
the street, finding a space at last that was wholly 
within the legal statutes. 

Under an electric light he took out the lace handker¬ 
chief, transferring it from the pocket of his overcoat 
to one of the pockets of his evening clothes. He 
must give it to Mrs. Emerson as soon as he saw her. 

He walked up the narrow roadway under the porte- 
cochere of the Club House, gave his ticket to an old 
man at the door and, mounting a somewhat worn 
staircase, found himself on the second floor landing. 
The aspect of things so far was not inclined to give a 
stranger any thrills. Young people, whom he did not 
know, had never seen before, seemed to be having a 
wonderful time. He passed three couples while go¬ 
ing up the stairs. But the ball-room was a fascinating 


THE QUITTER 


I 5 I 

picture, the ceiling hung with gay lanterns and stream¬ 
ers of soft colors. The lights, shaded by the bunting, 
threw over the place a glow of seductive softness and 
indefinable color. 

He deposited his hat and coat with the check boy 
and stepped to the outer fringe of the dance floor. On 
a stage, at the further end of the room, an orchestra, 
screened behind a bank of palms, gave forth weird 
strains, the saxophone wailing to the syncopation of 
a wild melody. The place was crowded and in a 
sweeping glance he picked out some very pretty girls. 
Light and free they danced, their evening gowns all 
colors of the rainbow, giving to the scene a sort of 
kaleidoscopic whirl. It was hot, a soft perfume filled 
the air. He wondered what had become of Grace 
and then she glided by, dancing with a man whom he 
did not know. 

As his eyes became accustomed to the scene, he rec¬ 
ognized other couples; Jimmy and Dora—that black 
dress was becoming to Do, cut lower than he had 
noticed at home. But then that seemed to be the rage, 
some of the gowns holding their own only through the 
instrumentality of shoulder straps of extremely nar¬ 
row width and some sort of divine protection; at 
least, so it appeared to him. Arthur Emerson and 
Miss Turner swept by. He was a clumsy dancer, 
must be hard for a little faun like Elizabeth to have 


152 


THE QUITTER 


to wallow around with such a hippopotamus. Strain¬ 
ing his eyes he tried to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Emer¬ 
son, he wanted very much to dance with her. And 
then the sparkle of dull blue spangles; she was 
dancing with Don. They were laughing about some¬ 
thing, her beautiful head was turned so that Craig 
caught her profile. She danced with infinite grace 
and he noticed her shapely feet, clad in blue satin slip¬ 
pers with very high heels. She seemed to throb, to 
pulsate with the music. They came very close to him 
as he stood in the doorway. She smiled pleasantly. 
Then a boyish figure cutting-in from somewhere along 
the side lines, bore her off, and Don came over. 

“Darn these little snappers!” he said. “Oughtn’t to 
allow them at a dance like this. Bobs is a marvelous 
dancer, but you can’t get more than half way around 
the room with her, she’s so darn popular. Lord, if 
anybody had told me ten years ago that I would be 
doing this, well . . 

“It isn’t much more than just fancy walking,” 
Craig said. 

“Don’t fool yourself. The girls nowadays want a 
lot of trick stuff, or they hate you. I’m just learning 
that little sidewise skip thing, it’s fascinating when 
you get on to it. Think I’ll cut-in and try it with 
Elizabeth.” 

He left abruptly, walking over to the other side of 


THE QUITTER 


153 


the dance floor. Just then the music stopped amid a 
volley of hand-clapping. The musicians, however, 
refused to continue in spite of the protest. 

Arthur Emerson strolled up. “Intermission, thank 
God; hot, isn’t it?” He mopped a very red face. 
“I’m glad they finished that dance, it was about to 
finish me, though Beth is a whiz.” 

Dora was beckoning to Craig and he went over to 
her. 

“We must go and speak to Mrs. Austen,” she told 
him, “that old lady over there by the stage.” 

In an old-fashioned rocking chair the venerable 
Mrs. Austen was holding court. A little group of 
people surrounded her, all talking at once. 

“I am indeed glad to meet you,” she said to Craig 
and Dora, “I’ve heard so much about you. I always 
like to meet the new people. We’re growing so fast 
out here it’s hard to keep up with one’s acquaintances. 
I’m not going to ask how you like Rockledge, that’s 
such a prosaic question, isn’t it?” 

Craig murmured something which he felt appro¬ 
priate and Mrs. Austen continued: “I’m in love with 
your small son, such a cunning child. I met him the 
other day in the toy store. I hope you are enjoying 
the dance. It was nice of you to come . . .” 

Conversation was interrupted, other couples crowd¬ 
ing in, 


154 


THE QUITTER 


“Isn’t she a dear?” Dora murmured as they moved 
away. “Did you see that diamond necklace, it’s just 
as old-fashioned, but my, how beautiful!” 

The orchestra struck up; Craig asked his wife to 
dance. 

“You shouldn’t hold me so tight,” she fretted. 
“There, that’s better. Don’t hop so on the turns.” 

So they danced for a while. He wondered why 
everyone persisted in getting in his way. At the en¬ 
core Don bore Dora off and Craig was left to himself 
once more. 

He was not enjoying the evening very much, it was 
crowded now, hot and stuffy. Standing by the door¬ 
way he tried to appear unconcerned. Mrs. Emerson 
flashed by, her partner, whoever he was, making heavy 
going. She glanced over his shoulder, and her lips 
moved. Craig wasn’t sure what she said, but she 
evidenced distress and, hardly realizing what he was 
doing, he stepped forward, tapping the awkward per¬ 
son on the shoulder. Nancy murmured her thanks as 
her wild partner faded away. 

“It was awfully good of you, he’s the worst 
dancer.” 

Craig did not reply, for he was experiencing a fas¬ 
cinating sensation. Never in his life had he danced 
better; how light and graceful she was, this beautiful 
woman, nestled in his arms. Around the room they 


THE QUITTER 


155 


went; Don’s little skip step was negotiated with ease. 
The music seemed to float dreamily from somewhere 
in the vague distance, the lights blended in a mellow 
glow. How deftly she followed his lead. That elu- 
sively sweet perfume, it thrilled him. He felt as 
though they were far away, beyond this noisy crowd, 
away on some desert isle, where life was all sun¬ 
shine. . . . She was speaking to him. 

“I hope you like dancing as much as I do. Isn’t 
this orchestra perfect?” 

He had forgotten the musicians and was moving to 
the throbbing of some unseen, unknown music, a mel¬ 
ody he fancied he had never heard. Her words 
roused him, he gazed down upon her. Her eyes were 
closed, long black lashes gently quivering. 

“Yes,” he said, “I love to dance.” And he wanted 
to add, “with you.” 

From some distant corner of his brain it was born 
in upon him that the music had ceased. They were 
standing still amid a clatter of voices and hand clap¬ 
ping. Things about him took on their ordinary as¬ 
pect; Dora and Don were standing beside them. 

“Mrs. Hallowell,” Nancy was saying, “your hus¬ 
band is a wonderful dancer. Why didn’t you tell 
me?” 

Don flashed him a keen look. 

Dora smiled. “Why yes, he is improving.” 


156 THE QUITTER 

“Improving!” Nancy exclaimed. “Ask me again, 
will you?” 

“Old Serious Face,” Don chaffed. “He’s cutting 
me out with all the girls. Careful now, Bobs, he’s 
dangerous.” 

The music began again and Nancy was whisked 
away by a slim youth whom Craig appraised as not 
over nineteen years of age. What was her fascina¬ 
tion for old and young alike, this dark-eyed, delightful 
woman? Dancing with her ... it was wonderful! 
He was still quivering at the recollection of it. 

The evening wore on. He danced with Grace, 
while she told him the gossip of the town. What a 
peach she was, but it was like taking one’s sister 
around the room. His confidence increased. Little 
Elizabeth was his partner for a time, saucy young 
fairy; she teased him about Nancy in a gay small way, 
and he believed that he liked it. 

Toward midnight, supper was served and he found 
Mrs. Emerson seated on the stairs with the boyish 
person. She made a place for him beside her. 

“Can’t I get you something, an ice?” Craig sug¬ 
gested. 

She shook her head. A cigarette? Yes, she would 
have one. And so they chatted a while. The boy be¬ 
coming restive with Craig on the scene excused 
himself. 


THE QUITTER 


157 


When he had departed, Nancy sighed, “Poor young 
chap. He’s just like a little sparrow that has fallen 
from the nest, ought to be home in bed. Very serious 
minded, you know. Came here all alone and hasn’t 
been having a good time, so he tells me. He wants to 
go over and enter the Foreign Legion.” 

“You seem depressed.” 

“Oh no, but that boy, he upset me. I honestly 
think I’m tired too.” 

In his pocket lay the small lace handkerchief. It 
burned his side; he ought to give it to her now, but 
well ... it was embarrassing to think about, hard 
to blurt out a thing like that. Perhaps he might mail 
it sometime, tomorrow with a note . . . 

“You haven’t forgotten our engagement to ride, 
have you?” she asked, looking at him with a bright 
smile. 

“Oh indeed, no!” mastering an emotion which was 
getting the better of him. 

“What time shall we start?” 

“Seven thirty, if that’s not . . 

“I’d love to go early. Where shall we meet?” 

“I could bring the horses up to you.” 

“Let’s meet at the riding stables.” 

“I’ll get you a good horse or, better still, ride mine.” 

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to do that.” 

“Signet is absolutely gentle,” he ventured. 


THE QUITTER 


158 

“No, I’ll try one of the school horses. I don’t want 
to take your mount away from you.” 

From the ball room came strains of music; the 
supper intermission was over. 

Jimmy Marchmand pushed his way through the 
crowd. “Bobs, you know this is my dance.” 

Nancy got up. “Where can I put this cigarette?” 

Craig took it from her as she went away with 
Jimmy. He gazed at the small stub still moist with 
the touch of her lips, a thin blue line of smoke ascend¬ 
ing from the end. Somebody tapped him on the 
shoulder and, turning, he looked into the face of a 
man attired in a blue suit with brass buttons. 

“Better throw that thing away.” And he indicated 
a jar filled with sand, standing in a corner of the 
hallway, “or, no, give it to me. This place is an 
old fire trap, I have to be on the job.” He tossed it 
into the jar. 

Craig remained seated at the top of the stairs for 
some time. Nancy’s face, the way she held a cigarette 
between her white fingers, fascinating person . . . 

He wandered back to the dance floor. The crowd 
was thinning out, now the musicians playing to a more 
moderate tempo. Couldn’t he dance with Nancy just 
once more? He spied her over on the other side of the 
room. She was with the serious minded youth. 


THE QUITTER 


159 

“You seem to be my rescuer tonight/’ she laughed 
as Craig cut in. 

Again the sense of subdued lights and soothing in¬ 
definiteness about everything; floating away on a 
cloud, this was not reality, waking would smash it to 
atoms. 

“It’s over. Don’t you hear them playing 'Home, 
Sweet Home’?” 

He heard as through a long dark tunnel, and 
stopped abruptly near the entrance to the ball room, 
where Arthur Emerson, fur coat buttoned tight about 
his portly figure, stood with Don and Elizabeth and 
the rest. 

“Well, old girl, have you had enough?” Emerson 
said as Nancy and Craig joined the group. “You 
sure have given yourself an evening. I’ve been 
playing bridge.” 

“It’s been a wonderful party,” Dora gurgled. 

“And,” observed Don, a twinkle in his eye, “our 
old friend Craigie here has blossomed out as a fit 
partner for Muriza at the Palais Royale. Have you 
danced every dance? I didn’t see you miss one.” 

Under the porte-cochere they said good night and 
Craig caught a fleeting glimpse of a fur cloaked figure 
as Emerson and Nancy flashed away, chauffeur and 
footman on the box. 


i6o 


THE QUITTER 


“He travels in style, does Arthur,” Jimmy mur¬ 
mured. “Wonder if I can start my old tin can.” 

They walked out to the street together. 

“I’m done up/’ Marchmand confessed. “These 
dances are awful when you have to go to business next 
morning. So long, maybe I’ll see you on the train.” 

Jimmy done up, Craig wondered. For some reason 
he did not sense any feeling of weariness, he felt 
young and brisk and gay. The car started with some 
difficulty, it was cold and the motor back-fired fear¬ 
fully. He went around to the doorway, picking up 
Dora waiting, shivering on the steps. 

“I had a perfect time,” she said as they started 
homeward. “Did you enjoy it?” 

He murmured something commonplace, but in his 
mind there lingered a memory; soft lights, a wonder¬ 
ful rhythm, and day after tomorrow he would see her 
again. 


CHAPTER IV 


In the morning he felt tired and cross. Dora was 
not awake when he got up and he left her peacefully 
slumbering. It was after nine o’clock when he sat 
down to breakfast and Freddy had long since gone off 
to school. The house was very quiet. He loitered 
over the meal, hating the thought of the noisy city. 
He wanted to be quiet; alone. 

Outdoors the sun shone through a thin haze. The 
gardener was covering up the plants and Craig watched 
him bending over his work, tying back branches, 
swathing the shrubs with large pieces of burlap. It 
seemed like a funeral, this burying of the full blown 
life of summer. The place was taking on a strange, 
uncouth aspect. Back by the garden wall a huge pile 
of leaves lay smoldering, sending up clouds of thick 
smoke which seemed to penetrate everywhere. The 
air was saturated with a quivering sadness. Off 
somewhere in the distance a hound bayed mournfully. 
Suddenly along the street a motor car whizzed by and, 
as the driver took the sharp turn down hill, he blew 
his horn shrilly, the sound grating on the silence 
horribly. Craig wondered if the fool had waked 
Dora. 

161 


THE QUITTER 


162 

His thoughts wandered back to the Marchmands’ 
dinner and the dance. Silly of him to have kept that 
handkerchief. Why hadn’t he given it back at the first 
opportunity? Now it might be rather difficult, im¬ 
possible to explain. He wondered if Nancy Emerson 
had missed it. Probably not, women were always los¬ 
ing such trifles. Suppose, however, that she did real¬ 
ize its loss, suppose she asked Grace if it had been 
found in the house, and the maid, upon being quizzed 
by her mistress . . . What then? He had been 
something of a fool. A pretty face, but, hang it all, 
Mrs. Emerson was no ordinary woman; she was far 
removed from the commonplace. He was fascinated 
by her, no denying that, and looking back, he told 
himself that he was glad, darn glad, that they had met. 
He could not exactly define his sensations, but she 
seemed to fill a place somewhere, giving him a feeling 
of soft contentment. And tomorrow; they would ride 
together through the silent woods where, unhampered 
by the restrictions of conversation in a crowd, they 
might talk to each other. And he wanted to talk to 
her; he felt as though he had known her a long time. 
Was it possible that only a few short hours ago they 
had not even met? He wondered when he might 
properly call her by the familiar nickname, “Bobs,” 
that name suited her absolutely. 

He dawdled with his food, turning over in his mind 


THE QUITTER 


163 

vivid impressions of her face, her voice, the adorable 
way she smiled . . . Suddenly it struck him that per¬ 
haps this engagement to ride might be a trifle un¬ 
conventional. He had always been a conventional 
man, and now a woman to whom he had just been in¬ 
troduced, whom he hardly knew at all. . . . Well, why 
should he care, why should anybody care? Conven¬ 
tionality, bosh! He was tired of riding horseback 
alone, her companionship would be delightful. She 
had been most anxious to accept his invitation; she had, 
in fact, pressed it. Yet, woman of the world that she 
was, she probably wasn’t going to give it any more 
thought than if riding with a groom. A groom, 
that’s what he was, somebody to watch and see that 
no accident befell. What a fool, at his age, to day¬ 
dream like some calfish school boy. . . . He picked 
up his hat and coat in the hall and stepped into the 
waiting automobile. 

In the smoker he met Don. Walden was full of 
talk. He wanted to know if Craig always took this 
bankers’ train. Hadn’t it been a bang-up party? 
How did he like Elizabeth? Wasn’t she a peach of a 
girl? They had sat up after getting back to the 
Marchmands’. Grace had cooked some scrambled 
eggs and it was nearly four when they finally went to 
bed. 


164 


THE QUITTER 


“And I’ll tell you something more,” he continued, 
“Beth and I are engaged, old sport. Last night com¬ 
ing home in the car. . . . Well, aren’t you going to 
congratulate me?” 

Craig’s mind was whirling. Elizabeth, a slip of a 
girl, pretty, yes, and clever too, but Don . . . 

“So you’ve gone and done it, have you?” he said 
aloud. “I certainly do congratulate you. Did you 
tell Jimmy and Grace?” 

“Sure thing, you don’t suppose I’m going to bury 
a piece of news like that, do you? Why, I’m the hap¬ 
piest man in the world. I’d like to call in the 
Associated Press; that’s how I feel!” 

Hallowell smiled. “It surely is an interesting item, 
that’s a fact. I can hardly reconcile myself to it 
though; I’ve always pictured you as a confirmed old 
bachelor. You’re a lucky dog, Don. Elizabeth is a 
wonder, I like her immensely.” 

“Sure you like her, everybody does. To tell you 
the truth, I’m sort of spinning yet. I hardly expected 
she’d have me, I’m awfully set in my ways.” 

Craig looked at him and wondered how long after 
the wedding he would be, as he expressed it, “set in 
his ways.” Elizabeth would have something to say 
about that, if he judged her rightly. Women had a 
knack of upsetting that sort of thing. 


THE QUITTER 165 

“I think we’ll be married in the spring,” Don con¬ 
fided. “Beth’s willing and it can’t happen too soon 
to suit me.” 

In the spring. In June, perhaps. Craig was think¬ 
ing. He had married Dora in June. What a far off 
day it seemed now. Those years between had changed 
a whole lot of things. Life was made up of illusions, 
time shattered most of them. He was not living the 
life he had pictured on that wedding day. It was not 
a bit as he had imagined it would be and yet he was 
happy with Dora, after a fashion. Why complain? 
They lived a wholly decent, respectable life. They had 
their differences, but all married couples were that 
way. Nothing really serious had ever marred their 
happiness. She wasn’t, of course, the same girl of 
those boarding school days, but then he wasn’t the 
same boy either . . . 

He left Walden at the entrance to the tube train. 

“You’re more serious than usual this morning, if 
that’s possible,” Don told him. “So long! I’m go¬ 
ing to give a little party soon, I’ll telephone you. 
Cheer up!” 

“I’m not used to these late hours,” Craig explained. 
“They take it out of a person.” 

He watched a moment as Don, suitcase in hand, 
disappeared down the stairs. Irrepressible Don, just 


THE QUITTER 


166 

as he used to be in college days. He sighed at that 
recollection and, mingling with the crowd of com¬ 
muters, boarded a ferry boat for New York. 

il 

That evening on the way home from the station, he 
stopped at the riding stables. Did they have a horse 
that he could rent for use next morning, a gentle one, 
such as a lady might ride? The proprietor, a slim 
young man with strong Cockney accent, assured him 
that he could meet the requirements. 

“All our ’orses are gentle, Mr. ’Allowed. Most of 
the ’igh school young ladies rides with me.” 

As to a saddle; Craig waited in the car while he 
went in to fetch one. 

“This ’ere my wife uses it. It’s well broke and 
comfortable for any lady.” He thumped it with a 
heavy fist. “H-inglish make, sir, there ain’t none bet¬ 
ter and it ’as knee pads, too. She’ll ’ave a good seat 
on it, never fear.” 

Craig appraised it with critical eyes. It was a good 
saddle, better than he had hoped to find; the fellow 
knew his business. 

“Have the horse ready at seven-thirty. I’ll ride 
down here . 

“Right you are, sir, and you shall ’ave Colonel, a 
good ’orse, well broke. I can just as well bring ’im 


THE QUITTER 


167 


up to your ’ouse though.” Assured that this would 
not be necessary, the man touched his cap. “Seven- 
thirty! Wonderful mornings for riding, ain’t they?” 
he called as the car drew away. 

Craig found Dora cross and petulant, all day long 
she had suffered with a headache. 

“I never ought to drink those cocktails. Jimmy 
makes them too strong.” 

He was sympathetic. Wasn’t there something he 
could do for her? 

“Oh, it’s not so bad now, better than it was this 
afternoon. I’ll slip on a dress and come down to 
dinner.” 

“I got an interesting piece of news on the train,” 
he told her. “Don tells me that he and Elizabeth are 
engaged.” 

“I’m not surprised, Grace intimated as much last 
night.” 

“She’s a wonderful match-maker, isn’t she? I 
hope they’ll be very happy. I think Don deserves it, 
don’t you?” 

“Elizabeth Turner isn’t such a great catch,” she 
assured him. “She didn’t impress me, smokes an 
awful lot, sort of a trifler.” 

He wondered why his wife thought of Elizabeth in 
that way. Miss Turner was no unusual person, just 


THE QUITTER 


168 

a typical girl of her class, but there was something 
very likable about her. He felt that it was exactly like 
Dora to make such a snap judgment. But he didn’t 
argue about it; with a headache, she was not in the 
mood for argument. All day he had been thinking 
about what Don had told him and it seemed an event 
of unusual importance. Dora took it very coolly, he 
had thought that she would be much more interested. 
Strange, how he never could seem to anticipate her 
reactions any more! 

At dinner Freddy irritated her. “You eat like a 
young pig,” she told him. 

His father was pleased enough to see the young 
man with such a good appetite. 

“Oh, his appetite’s all right, but you never notice 
his manners at table, do you? Men don’t take ac¬ 
count of such things. I want him to grow up to be 
a gentleman.” 

They finished the meal in silence and directly after¬ 
wards, Dora retired to her room again. 

Seated in an arm chair Craig read stories to his 
son. Freddy was all interest. 

“I like those things about King Arthur and all the 
knights. Gee, it must be wonderful to be a knight 
and go off to battle with the heathen.” 

It was after eight o’clock when the reading was 
finished. 


THE QUITTER 


169 


“Good night, Dad,” Freddy said as he started for 
bed. “You’ll read to me some other time, won’t 
you ?” 

“I’ll do a lot for you, when you’re as good as you 
were tonight.” 

Under the reading lamp with a fresh cigar, he spent 
an hour, until he suddenly realized that he was read¬ 
ing without understanding. Closing the book, he sat 
for a time in deep meditation. Tomorrow morn¬ 
ing . . . would the day dawn clear? He had not 
told Dora of his appointment to ride with Nancy 
Emerson. The opportunity to bring up such a subject 
had not presented itself and he was just as glad, for, 
well, why tell her anyhow ? It wouldn’t interest her he 
felt certain. He was mortal tired. Yawning, he 
slowly ascended the stairs. 


hi 

Through the night strange dreams harassed him, 
while he tossed about, sleeping fitfully. Soon after 
daylight he got up, to find a gloQmy day dawning. 
Dressing hastily, he went to the dining room, where 
an electric percolator stood waiting. The servants 
were not up so he made himself the customary cup of 
coffee, drinking it in the silence of the library, where 
he had wandered to gaze at a hazy sun trying to pene¬ 
trate a thick blanket of murky clouds. 


170 


THE QUITTER 


At the side of the house, beside the mounting block, 
Signet, impatient to be off, was pawing the ground. 
He patted her smooth neck; she muzzled his hand. 

“Of course, old girl, some sugar.” He went back 
into the house, while the gardener held the horse. 
“There,” he said, “I guess this will interest you.” And 
he held out three lumps. 

She pricked up her ears and crunched them. 

Craig swung into the saddle. Along the smooth 
asphalt street they went, the horse’s hoofs clattering 
sharply in the stillness of the early morning. The 
mare pirouetted from side to side. 

“Not so fast,” he cautioned. “You know we never 
do that on this slippery pavement.” 

At the stable the riding master was waiting for 
him, horse all saddled, slickly groomed, a very credit¬ 
able looking mount. 

“Colonel, ’e’s a fine ’orse, don’t you think?” asked 
the Cockney. “Got ’im at a sale in New York, best 
’orse I ever picked up like that, quite a jumper too.” 

“I don’t want him to try any jumping tricks this 
morning, thank you.” 

The man laughed. “ ’E won’t play no foolishness, 
never fear.” 

Half past seven now. Nancy would probably be 
late. Why were women invariably behind-hand in 
keeping appointments ? A smart runabout swung 


THE QUITTER 


171 

suddenly around the corner and stopped on the other 
side of the street. There was only one person in it, 
the chauffeur, who got out and came over to where 
Craig was waiting. 

“Mr. Hallowed,” he said, “Mrs. Emerson is sorry, 
but she won’t be able to ride today. She told me to 
say that she hoped it wouldn’t make any difference.” 

Craig stiffened in the saddle. “Oh, it’s quite all 
right,” he replied, trying to appear unconcerned. 
“Tell her I’m sorry. I hope she isn’t ill.” 

“No sir, but she can’t ride this morning.” 

“Thank you.” 

The man jumped into the car and whirled away. 

“Lady not coming?” asked the riding master 
anxiously. 

“I’ll pay for the use of the horse, just the same.” 

“That’s all right, you needn’t trouble. Mr. Hen¬ 
derson called up just afore you came, he alius wants 
Colonel and now he can ’ave ’im. I was going to let 
’im take another ’orse.” 

“But I don’t want you to lose out.” 

“Lord, sir, I wouldn’t charge you. Folks h’often 
disappoint at the last minute, especially ladies. I’m 
used to it. ’Ope you ’ave a pleasant ride.” 

Craig murmured his thanks, assuring him that such 
a thing would not happen another time. Then he 
turned back up the street, cantering away toward the 


172 


THE QUITTER 


woods at the top of the hill. He felt angry, humili¬ 
ated. What a consummate ass he was! Might have 
known that she would never go. But why wait until 
the last minute? Why let him make all the prepara¬ 
tions and then back down? It was mighty inconsid¬ 
erate. He wondered if she would not make some 
further explanation. Why hadn’t she written a note 
and let the man bring it ? He wouldn’t stand for such 
treatment. Who was she to act in this high-handed 
fashion, spoiled darling. . . . He put spurs to the 
horse, gaining the top of the hill road and plunging 
into the woods. Never would he ask her again! 

The sky, lead colored, with clouds hanging low, 
looked menacing. No bright patches of sunlight fil¬ 
tered down from overhead; a chill wind moaned 
through the tops of the trees. Signet, light and free, 
seemed to glory in the frostiness that filled the air. 
Dark clouds could not dampen the ardor of her en¬ 
thusiasm. After a sharp canter, Craig pulled up, 
patting the mare and speaking in low tones. 

“Good old horse!” he murmured. “You’re always 
willing, you never disappoint.” 

A dull, quiet sadness hovered over everything, but 
the strenuous exercise, sending the blood tingling 
through his veins, made him feel young, vigorous. It 
was good to be alive after all. A sense of freedom 
filled him. Why should he worry or give a moment’s 


THE QUITTER 


173 


thought to the whims of Nancy Emerson, what was 
she to him? He would rather a million times take 
these morning rides by himself and he believed that 
he felt relieved that she had not come. Why should 
he, at his age, play the polite gallant . . . absurd. 
Grace had told him that all the men were crazy about 
Bobs, but he wasn’t going to make a fool of him¬ 
self, he hadn’t quite reached that stage. She would 
find out that there was one man who could not be 
“vamped.” How he loathed the word. Vamping, 
that was it. Women dressed for seduction, wore low 
neck gowns, bared their arms, used strange perfumes 
and swathed their limbs in cobweb stockings, only for 
one reason. And men, poor deluded devils, blunder¬ 
ing along, caught by an alluring scent, captivated by all 
this folderol. What was it but vulgar advertising of 
hidden passions. . . . 

And so for upwards of an hour he rode through 
the grayness of that cold morning and at last when he 
turned his horse towards home he felt like some monk 
of old, chastened in spirit, having seen the light of 
reason. 

On the summit of the hill snow was falling, light, 
thin flakes, and by the time he reached his gate the 
ground was covered. Gone was golden autumn with 
its riot of color and in its place this sudden cold white 
smoothness. 


CHAPTER V 


It deeply wounded his pride, that episode with 
Nancy Emerson, and a polite little note received that 
evening did not change his opinion of her. She was 
very sorry that she had been unable to meet him, an 
unexpected appointment in the city had prevented. 
She hoped that he would forgive her and that he had 
not been put to any great inconvenience. Would he 
ask her some other time? They were planning to call 
very soon. It was a strictly formal epistle. 

He wondered what possible appointment could have 
come at that eleventh hour and at such a time in the 
morning? She was trying to get out of it as grace¬ 
fully as possible. Had reflection made her think her 
enthusiasm on the night of the dance a trifle impru¬ 
dent? But no, that couldn’t be, for she wasn’t that 
sort of a woman: there was no reason to back down on 
those grounds; taking a morning ride was a perfectly 
normal thing for two people to do. As to asking her 
again, not much. He had learned his lesson and was 
glad of it. She wouldn’t have a chance to make a 
monkey out of him another time. An air-castle, a 
dream: it was smashed now and so much the bet- 
174 


THE QUITTER 


175 


ter fortunate that things turned out as they had. 

For a week he went about with a high heart. He 
took Dora to the theater in New York. They dined 
at a gay restaurant. The play was excellent and he 
enjoyed it very much. His wife fussed all during the 
last act, afraid that they would miss the theater train; 
next time they must go in the car, she didn’t intend to 
have her whole evening spoiled by anxiety over rail¬ 
road connections But in spite of all that he had a 
good time. Dora looked very well in that black dress. 
He felt almost like a boy again, a light-heartedness 
possessed him, a care free spirit that he could not de¬ 
fine. If only she wouldn’t fuss so, how perfect every¬ 
thing might have been. 

The long trip home irritated her. 

“If they call this an easy journey,” she complained, 
“I wonder what they consider a hard one. We’ve 
stopped at every station. Goodness, but I’m tired. It 
must be very late.” 

At the* depot, where a few forlorn taxis waited for 
the belated ones from town, their car met them. The 
streets of Rockledge were deserted. Arrived at the 
house, Dora went directly to bed. Craig did not want 
to think of sleep, he felt wide awake. In the library, 
with a highball and a comfortable cigar, he sat think¬ 
ing. Why didn’t they do this sort of thing oftener? 
The gaiety of the city at night, the lights; it was worth 


THE QUITTER 


176 

while, swept the cobwebs out of a man’s brain. And 
as for the trip, it hadn’t seemed irksome to him. She 
must go with him often, he was going to make her do 
it, once a week at least. They would try it in the 
car; in evening dress that way would be more com¬ 
fortable for her. None of the people in the train 
were dressed up. She had probably felt conspicuous. 
She would enjoy it more next time. You had to 
pound at a thing to get her so she liked it. He would 
pound. 

The clock was striking two when he tip-toed into the 
bedroom. A dim light burned between the beds, suf¬ 
fusing everything with a pale pink glow. His wife 
was sleeping soundly, bosom gently rising and falling 
with her light breathing, fair hair spread over the 
pillow in pretty confusion. How young she looked! 
One bare arm rested lightly on the coverlet. She 
stirred, murmuring some incoherent thing. Bending 
low he gazed intently at her, his wife, his small Dora, 
just as she used to look, the blessed magic *of sweet 
sleep erasing all lines of care, young girl of those by¬ 
gone days. He almost expected her to open her eyes 
and to speak long-forgotten words of love. That little 
twist of her mouth when she smiled. Impulsively he 
touched her ear gently with his finger. How she used 
to like to have him do that. He remembered the de¬ 
licious shiver that always ran over her slight body at 


THE QUITTER 177 

the caress. Now, she tossed about, swinging her arm 
as though to ward off some lurking danger. 

He left the bedside, undressing in the comparative 
darkness of the other side of the room. Then he 
crept into his own bed, switching off the light, as he 
pulled the covers up about his neck. 

From the street strange shapes crept along the walls, 
shadows of leafless branches swept by the night wind. 

11 

When some few days later he proposed that they go 
again to the city for dinner and the theater, Dora was 
not at all enthusiastic over the idea. 

“I don’t enjoy it,” she said. “It’s too much of a 
drag. If we lived in New York it would be different. 
Going to the theater when one lives right in the city 
must be delightful, but when you have to come all the 
way back here, why there isn’t much pleasure. . . .” 

He did not answer, it was typical of her to always 
want the thing she couldn’t have and her opinions once 
formed, were not easy to change. 

Harassed in his business by all the new problems 
which the war was bringing up, Craig craved diver¬ 
sion in his hours of relaxation. It was stupid, this 
eternal staying home of an evening and going to bed 
at a ridiculously early hour. He was not sleeping 
soundly. A vague shadow seemed hovering over him, 


178 


THE QUITTER 


his mind was crowded with queer fancies. He won¬ 
dered why neighbors didn’t drop in once in a while. 
He had pictured life in Rockledge as full of that sort 
of thing. It was pleasant to have folks come unex¬ 
pectedly. Where were all those new friends who, for 
the first few weeks of their suburban life, had been 
so cordial? 

Talking with Dora about it, she laughed at him. 
“You can’t very well expect them to rush us all the 
time. I don’t see why you worry about it so; didn’t 
we get an invitation to the Austen dance? That’s 
proof of our social standing.” 

“Darn the social part of it, that isn’t what I mean,” 
he insisted. “Dances are all very well, but hang it all, 
we sit here night after night doing nothing. . . 

“You make me smile, Craig. I don’t know what’s 
come over you lately. Can’t you be happy in your 
own home once in a while? Why do you insist upon 
gallivanting about like a gay young cavalier?” 

He laid down his newspaper. “Can’t stay at 
home. . . . Good Lord, do I ever do anything else? 
What makes you think I want to play the gay young 
cavalier, as you call it ? What a thing to throw at me, 
it’s mighty unjust! If I were like some husbands I 
know, you might complain. Cavalier! That sort of 
talk makes me sick. I’m tired of this everlasting mop¬ 
ing life that you seem to enjoy so much. I’m not old 


179 


THE QUITTER 

and decrepit yet, thank God, but you . . . it’s just 
utter selfishness on your part. You sit here knitting,” 
he said it with a strange bitterness. “Knitting, I hate 
the word! You might be ninety for all the real joy 
you get out of living.” 

She looked at him, her face was pale, her eyes shin¬ 
ing. “So you have started to abuse me,” she said 
slowly. “I might have known it, you’ve been coming 
to that for a long time. It doesn’t make any differ¬ 
ence to you how hard I try to do the right thing. 
Home has lost its interest, has it? You crave life, 
gaiety. . . . You’ve lost all sense of proportion since 
we moved out here!” She broke into tears. 

But for once he did not give in at the sight of her 
weeping. “You’re wrong,” he told her firmly. “I’m 
not the one who has lost my sense of proportion. It is 
you who have done that. I can’t stand the sort of 
life you glory in. It’s absurd of you to act as you do. 
Just because once in a blue moon I like to see . . . 
you accuse me, why, it’s preposterous. I’ve fought 
you on this thing for ten years and let me tell you I’m 
just about tired of it, too.” 

He paused for breath. Slow to anger, he was sur¬ 
prised at himself. Rarely did he give way to temper. 
Dora sat very still, head bent, shoulders heaving. 
What a pretty mess it was, this family quarrel. How 
he detested quarreling. It was ridiculous of her to 


i8o 


THE QUITTER 


take on so. He hadn’t abused her, hadn’t even used 
strong language, and heaven knows, the situation 
well warranted it. Well then, let her cry it out if she 
wanted to go that way. It would be a new experience 
at least, for he had no intention of doing the usual 
crawling act now, apologizing, then taking her in his 
arms. He was right and was going to stand by his 
guns. She needed a lesson, these were new tactics. 
He picked up the newspaper, rattling it to attract her 
attention. Just as well to let her know now that he 
wasn’t going to give in, not this time. 

At the sound she sat suddenly bolt upright, eyes free 
of tears. “So!” she blazed, “the argument is finished 
as far as you are concerned, is it? You are ready to 
resume your reading and leave me to weep. Let me 
tell you then, that I’m through, too!” Flouncing out 
of her chair she moved towards the door; then turn¬ 
ing and facing him cried, “You say that you are sick 
and tired of the sort of life I want to live. Well, I 
say to you, what are you going to do about it?” And 
she swept out into the hall and up the stairs. 

The suddenness of this onslaught surprised him, 
crushing him into silence for a moment. Then his an¬ 
ger rose and he bounded from his chair. “Dora!” he 
called. “Dora, come back here, I want to talk to you.” 

The only answer he got was the sound of a door on 
the second floor, slamming violently. He took the 


THE QUITTER 


181 


stairway, two steps at a time. With wrenching hands, 
he tried the knob of the bedroom door. It was locked. 
His fists pounded upon the panels. 

“Unlock this door, do you hear!” he demanded. “I 
say, unlock this door. What do you mean by such ac¬ 
tions? Have you lost your mind?” 

From within a soft even voice answered him. “Go 
down and cool off for a while. Perhaps I’ll open the 
door, later.” 

Damn her impudence, she must be crazy. Well . . . 
but something in the tone of that voice assured him 
that further argument with her now was useless. 

Slowly he went downstairs and in the library sank 
into an armchair. He felt very bitter. What a 
smash up over nothing! What an evening’s entertain¬ 
ment! She had beaten him, she had triumphed and 
she knew it. Why didn’t he have the courage to break 
down that bedroom door ? But no, he couldn’t go any 
further in that direction, it was too much like dirty 
tenement house brawling. What had come over her ? 
This change in attitude was absolutely unexpected. 
How foolish his angry words, “I’ve fought you on 
this thing ten years,” sounded now. 

The house was very still. From somewhere out of 
the silence a clock struck. He wondered what Dora 
was doing. Was she lying on her bed weeping softly? 
Probably after the strain of their quarrel, the flood 


THE QUITTER 


182 

gates would let go. Tears, how he loathed them! 
But that voice coming from behind the locked door. 
There was no mawkish sorrowing in it. Some hidden 
strength, a strength that he had never expected, had 
come to the surface. He knew that it would not last, 
she would weaken. He must go upstairs now and ask 
if he might not come in. Better that way, better any 
way, so that a reconciliation might be effected. 

This time the door knob yielded to his touch. The 
room was in utter darkness and from the sound of 
heavy breathing coming from the direction of her 
bed, he realized with wonder that she was sound 
asleep. How could she, after such scenes, lie down 
and peacefully slumber? As for him, the thing had 
struck home. He could not live in this way, sneaking 
into his own bedroom like a skulking thief. He was 
a peace lover, abhorring quarrels, married people’s mis¬ 
understandings. Anything for peace. . . . Had he 
lived-too much that way, given in too often, just for 
the sake of tranquillity? Dora was spoiled, you 
couldn’t argue the most trifling matter with her any 
more. After all though, wasn’t he master of his own 
house? She must bend to his will, yes, by God, he’d 
make her. He clenched his hands in the darkness. 
She would do as he wished or . . . He did not dare 
to analyze what he meant by that word “or,” of that 
he was a bit afraid. 


CHAPTER VI 


The daily round of their life continued as before 
the quarrel, but to Craig it seemed a turning point. 
He imagined that he sensed in Dora a feeling of supe¬ 
riority, slight, but nevertheless very real to him. 
They never mentioned again the subject of that eve¬ 
ning. He was sure that his wife showed the effects of 
it. Why had he not battered down that door? Over 
and over again he asked himself the question. Why, 
in that crisis, had he failed to prove his mastery? 
What must she think of him? 

Coming home in the evening now, and greeted with 
what appeared a forced gaiety, he tried to pretend that 
he was not thinking of what he knew was uppermost 
in Dora’s mind. She was loving, sweet and careful 
of his smallest wish, and had this new attitude been 
brought about in other ways, for a different reason, 
he would have rejoiced in it, been glad and serenely 
happy. It only served to enrage him, forcing him to 
acknowledge, to himself, his own weakness. She was 
taking the upper hand. Successful in the first en¬ 
counter, she tried to run everything. Conversations 
as to Freddy’s welfare, his work at school, where he 
183 


184 


THE QUITTER 


seemed to be always in some sort of difficulty, ended 
invariably with Dora’s telling her husband that he 
knew nothing of such rrfatters. “Why do you 
bother?” she would say. “You have your business 
worries to think about. It’s a mother’s place to look 
after the welfare of her son.” 

But things did not appeal to Craig in that way, and 
he felt as though Freddy were gradually slipping away 
from him. The boy acted differently, appeared ill at 
ease when talking with his father. Had Dora told 
him. . . . Foolish thought, she would never dare to 
do such a thing as that. Probably it was his own too 
vivid imagination that was putting these wild ideas 
into his head. It was all within himself, he tried to 
argue. The boy was no different. Why worry over 
such a thing? It plagued him though, and he could 
not bear to let his mind travel along that path. 

11 

December blew in, cold and bleak. That early snow 
which, for a day, had covered the ground, was dissi¬ 
pated by chill rains. Then followed cold nights, while 
frost spread a thick blanket over the countryside. 

The garden pool, where once gay goldfish had 
floated lazily, now lay a sheet of ice. By the middle 
of the month, skaters were whirling on pond and river. 

“I played bridge today with Grace,” Dora said to 


THE QUITTER 


185 

Craig one evening. “Mrs. Emerson was there and 
she asked if we would go skating with them to¬ 
morrow night.” 

He wasn’t going to be caught, to start something 
that would end in futile argument, so he simply an¬ 
swered her. “Are you going?” 

“Why yes, that is if . . .” 

“You know I love skating. Did you tell her that 
we would come?” 

Dora shook her head. “No, I said that I’d ask you 
first.” 

So Nancy Emerson had condescended to notice them 
once more, had she? He wondered what impression 
his acceptance might make on her high and mightiness. 

“Why did you put it up to me, why didn’t ... ?” 

“How did I know that you would want to go?” 

“Tell her we will be there. I haven’t skated in 
years, but I’m game.” 

“It will be wonderful, if it’s not too cold,” Dora 
sighed. “My skates are old, but I guess I can get 
along.” 

“What, those rockers? Everyone is using them 
again: they say all of the figure skaters wear them.” 

“Figure skaters.” She laughed. “Not for me . . .” 

“Gee, wish that I could skate,” Freddy broke in. 
“Can’t stand up on ’em, my ankles must be weak.” 

“Nonsense!” Craig assured him. “You can learn 


i86 


THE QUITTER 


if you will only try. It isn’t any great trick, just a 
knack, and after you once get on to it, you sail away 
like a bird,” he described a circle through the air with 
his arm. 

The boy smiled. “You make it sound awful easy.” 

From her sewing chair by the fireplace, Dora looked 
up suddenly. “I don’t think he ought to try it just 
yet. You’ve never been on skates, dear, have you?” 

Freddy grinned. “This afternoon; had an awful 
fall, too.” And he looked ruefully at his father. 

Dora’s face was a study. “A fall! You didn’t tell 
me anything about it.” 

“Aw, it’s all right,” he assured her. “They’ve 
flooded the tennis courts up at school. I just tried on 
a pair of skates, flopped all over the place. Wish I 
knew how to use ’em.” 

“I noticed that he limped a little when he came 
home,” Dora said anxiously. “And I don’t know 
why I didn’t ask him about it. Did you hurt yourself 
badly?” 

“I hurt myself where I sat down and . . 

“I hope he hasn’t injured his spine, Craig. Do 
you suppose ...” 

“I don’t suppose anything,” he snapped. “Good 
heavens! didn’t I fall all over myself when I was 
learning to use skates ? Don’t be ridiculous, Do.” 

But she persisted, putting her hand caressingly on 


THE QUITTER 187 

the boy’s shoulder. “Does it hurt you now?” she 
asked and in her voice there was grave concern. 

“No, it doesn’t,” he said crossly. “I’m just a little 
stiff.” 

She resumed her seat before the fireplace, fidgeting, 
looking up once in a while at Craig and the boy, en¬ 
grossed in a game of checkers, utterly oblivious now 
to everything about them. The game didn’t interest 
her, she thought it a stupid pastime and wondered 
what they could see in it. 

“Darling, it’s bed time,” she broke in on them after 
a while, “come!” 

“Nonsense,” Craig exclaimed. “We’re having an 
exciting go.” 

It delighted him to find his son so interested. That 
foolish fancy about Dora alienating his affections; it 
was comforting to have Freddy with him, tonight. 

“He ought to go to bed.” 

Deep in the mysteries of another encounter, they 
ignored her. The telephone rang, she answered it. 

“Oh yes, Mrs. Emerson, he’s delighted. I do hope 
it will be a fine evening. I had intended to phone 
you . . .” 

Craig tried to keep his mind on Freddy’s moves. 
Nancy Emerson at the other end of the wire. Well, 
he didn’t think that he was going to be any too cordial. 
It wasn’t easy for him to forget a slight, and yet, why 


188 


THE QUITTER 


did he want to go skating? What was it about the 
woman that made her so fascinating? 

“I forgot to telephone her,” Dora was telling him. 
“Freddy’s story about falling on the ice put it com¬ 
pletely out of my mind. I wonder why she phoned? 
Why didn’t she wait for me to call her?” 

“Must be very anxious for us to come.” 

“I almost wish we hadn’t accepted; I’m afraid it’s 
going to be terribly cold.” 

He whistled a gay little tune, drumming on the edge 
of the checker board, with his fingers. 

“You never keep your mind on the game,” Freddy 
complained, “after we play a while. Look out, I’ll 
beat you again; there, I’ve cornered you.” 

“So you have, you’re very keen. . . .” 

“Another game, Dad?” 

“No sir, you’re going to skoot to bed.” 

“I must gather up the checkers, and put the table 
away.” 

“Anything to stave off the awful moment. Go 
along with you, I’ll tend to things.” 

“Aw gee, why do I always have to go to bed?” 

Craig put away the implements of the game and 
settled himself with a book. Why had Nancy Emer¬ 
son phoned ? Why hadn’t she waited for Dora ? 
Was it possible that . . . What foolishness! She 
hadn’t shown the slightest interest in either of them for 


THE QUITTER 


189 

weeks. The handkerchief, locked in a drawer of his 
dressing case, she had never missed. He wished 
somehow that he had been lucky enough to an¬ 
swer that phone call. He would like to have heard her 
voice over the wire. Was she very anxious to know 
whether he was coming? He focussed his atten¬ 
tion on the page before him, shutting out of his mind 
this thing which seemed more and more to be getting 
possession of him. Silly to wander again in that 
direction. 


Ill 

Moonlight shining from a clear sky, frosty air and 
a swiftly moving throng gliding about like shadows 
over the wide surface of the pond. Through a maze 
of parked automobiles, Craig piloted his car. 

“It looks good, doesn’t it?” he exclaimed enthusias¬ 
tically as they got out. “That ice is as smooth as 
glass.” 

He helped Dora over slippery going. They picked 
their way gingerly down toward the shore, to where 
a small house, half cabin, half shanty, sent out into 
the night, cheerful rays of light. Over the rickety 
boards of the worn piazza, people were thumping 
about on unsteady feet, standing for a moment at the 
edge of the stoop, which ran right down to the ice, 


i 9 o THE QUITTER 

then, with swift, easy motions, swinging off into the 
moonlight. 

Inside the place was pandemonium. Long benches 
lined three walls and on these impatient skaters strug¬ 
gled with unruly foot gear. A big stove, occupying 
one whole corner, radiated heat that was stifling. 
For a few seconds the Hallowells stood in the door¬ 
way, blinking at the sudden light. Elizabeth Turner, 
patient Don on his knees at her feet, spied them. 

“Hello there,” she called. “Come over here, Mrs. 
Hallowed, there’s room beside me.” 

Walden faced about quickly. “Hi, Craigie old 
sport, glad to see you. Get down on your hunkies, 
fellow, get right down and put your wife’s skates on 
for her. I’ve been here at Elizabeth’s since sun¬ 
down.” 

“I like your nerve,” exclaimed Miss Turner. “You 
know you have only just started. Ouch! you’re 
pinching my foot. Do be careful.” 

“There, Beth,” he said, getting up painfully from 
his stooping posture. “If those aren’t on right, the 
next thing is riveting. It isn’t my fault if they loosen 
up. My back’s all tied up in a knot.” 

Craig fussing with Dora’s skates wondered why 
they always made the straps so short. 

“Rockers, eh, Dora?” Don observed. “I’m ex- 


THE QUITTER 


191 

peering to look at some fancy stuff tonight. See you 
later.” He clumped across the floor, small Elizabeth 
wabbling by his side. 

Finished with the task of putting on his wife’s foot 
gear, Craig drew on his own hockey shoes, pulling up 
the laces tight and firm. Just as they were ready 
for the ice, the Emersons came in, Arthur with his 
round eye-glasses and bulky coonskin coat, looking for 
all the world like some great, fat owl. He almost 
obliterated Nancy, standing in the doorway beside 
him. 

“Oh, here you are. It’s nice to see you again,” she 
said, smiling graciously. “I’m not coming in, I’ve 
got my skates on. Let’s get out on the lake, it’s 
glorious.” 

Clasping her boa, Dora took Craig’s arm. Emer¬ 
son smiled his fattish smile. 

“You look like a real skater,” he observed surveying 
Craig’s tall form. 

“But you haven’t got skates on,” said Dora, looking 
down at Arthur’s small feet. 

“Me? Oh, I’m none too fit for this sort of thing.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Nancy urged. “Put them on and 
go out and have the time of your life. He can do 
very well if he wants to.” 

Arthur grinned. “Keep that up, Bobs, and I’ll kill 


192 


THE QUITTER 


myself yet. Would you skate with me, Mrs. Hallo- 
well? I’m pretty bad.” 

“It will be the blind leading the blind,” Craig 
laughed, then, at a look from his wife, “Oh, I didn’t 
mean that, you know.” 

“You can’t hurt my feelings,” Arthur assured him. 
“Be with you in a jiffy,” and he lumbered inside the 
shack. 

“Poor boy,” Nancy said, “he does try awfully 
hard. It’s the only thing in the world that he is self- 
conscious about and I don’t know that I blame him. 
It is difficult when you’re learning.” 

They waited a moment and Arthur reappeared, bun¬ 
dled like an eskimo. Taking Dora by the hand, he 
put his feet gingerly on the ice. 

“It’s mighty slippery, isn’t it?” he grinned. “Any¬ 
how, Mrs. Hallowed, if you think you’re going to fall, 
I’m something solid to hang on to. Ta, ta!” They 
started jerkily away. 

The piazza was deserted now, but for Craig and 
Nancy. Plainly she must have come back to skate 
with him. He was dimly conscious of taking her by 
the arm, of stepping out, of saying something about 
the beauty of the night, while their skates clicked in 
a perfect rhythm and the cold air struck him in the 
face. Light as mist, she floated along by his side. 


THE QUITTER 


193 


Through the swish of the wind whistling in his ears, 
he heard her speaking to him. 

“I was so sorry about the horseback ride. You 
must have thought me extremely rude.” 

“Why no,” he lied, “but I was disappointed.” 

“It’s nice of you to say that. You never asked me 
again though.” 

They were swinging away from the crowd, up the 
little winding stream at the further end of the lake, 
where only a few venturesome spirits cared to go, for 
the ice there was rough. 

“I never asked you again. Well, you remember we 
had snow that day and the weather for a while was 
beastly. I’ve about given up riding until spring.” 
She was silent. 

“Careful,” he cautioned, as they ran over a particu¬ 
larly bad bit of going. “This ice is full of nasty little 
cracks. It doesn’t freeze as smooth as out on the 
lake.” 

“But I always love to come up here, away from all 
those noisy people; it seems so remote, one might be 
miles back in the wilderness.” 

A runaway breeze wafted to him that strange, il¬ 
lusive perfume, and he tightened his hold upon her 
arm. He wondered if she were tired. She showed 
no sign of fatigue; wonderful woman, vigorous, mag- 


194 


THE QUITTER 


nificent, swaying along beside him, her skirt brushing 
his golf stockings as she bent her supple body to the 
exercise. It seemed as though they were two great 
birds, winging away to an unknown land, a country 
of moonlight and silence ... an unknown country, 
yes, it was that. What blessed enchantment had taken 
hold of him? It was all like the fabric of a dream. 

Suddenly they reached the end of the stream where 
it meandered out of the marshland and he brought up 
with a rush, gliding to rest in a swift whirl that car¬ 
ried Nancy off her feet with its force. For one fleet¬ 
ing instant he held her close, while she regained her 
equilibrium. 

“Glorious!” she panted. “I thought for a moment 
that we were going right on into the meadows. I 
didn’t realize that we had come so far. Don’t you 
pity anybody who doesn’t know how to skate ?” 

Ele gazed at her silhouetted in the pale light of the 
moon, silence all about them, a soft night wind 
sighing over the icebound world. What were her 
thoughts? Vaguely he could see her features. A 
stray lock of hair escaping from under her closely set 
toque brushed his cheek. He felt a mad desire to 
possess her, to draw her panting body to him, to kiss 
those bright lips, to see the look of wonder in her 
eyes. . . . Slowly they swung back toward the pond, 


THE QUITTER i 9S 

dimly gleaming in the distance, speaking hardly a 
word, moving silently along. Had she sensed his 
feelings? He smiled to himself. What an absurd 
idea. 

Out on the lake again they met Jimmy and Grace. 

“Oh, Bobs,” Marchmand called. “Here, skate with 
me. Gracie, let Craig hold you up for a while, I’m 
beat out.” 

“Isn’t he mean?” Grace said. “Just because I’m 
not as graceful as a swallow. And I do try so hard, 
too.” 

“That’s the trouble, darling, you try too hard,” 
Jimmy assured her. “Skating shouldn’t be work.” 

Craig released his hold on Nancy’s arm. She 
looked up at him. 

“It was wonderful! I did enjoy it—oh, ever so 
much.” 

“Here, here, hurry up, Bobs,” laughed Jimmy, “it’s 
too darn cold to stand still.” 

The others left them. “You don’t want to skate 
with me one bit, do you?” Grace observed. “Well, 
you needn’t.” 

“Nonsense,” Craig assured her. “I would like a bit 
of slow motion for a while. I’m almost winded.” 

Starting up, she made heavy weather of it. 

She sighed. “I don’t know why I persist the 


196 THE QUITTER 

way I do. I’m no better at it than I was ten years 

ago.” 

He was steadying her. “Strike out: there, that’s 
fine.” 

But it wasn’t very long before she was tired. “I’m 
hopeless. I think you’re the most polite man in the 
world. Fancy skating with Bobs and then taking me 
on. It’s laughable. Tell me,” she continued, “is she 
so very wonderful to skate with; I mean for a man to 
skate with? Jimmy will talk of it now for days. He 
always raves after one of these skating parties. If 
I wasn’t a sane woman I’d be terribly jealous.” 

He helped her over a bad spot. “She is marvel¬ 
ous,” he said enthusiastically. “I never . . .” 

“All the men talk like that,” she interrupted. “But 
then Bobs does everything well. She was born that 
way. Why don’t you call her Bobs, Craig? Mrs. 
Emerson is so formal; everybody knows her by her 
nickname. She likes it.” 

He said it over to himself. “Bobs,” it was a pretty 
name, appropriate, too. If opportunity offered he 
would try . . . 

Grace was dead. “I’m going back to the shack,” 
she moaned. “But don’t you come, please,” as he 
started to turn around with her. 

“I’m ready to go with you. Of course I 

\ N HI 


mean . . 


THE QUITTER 


197 


“There, there, don’t try to explain, I understand; it 
doesn’t hurt my feelings. Anyone who takes me 
skating is a martyr to the cause . . .’’ 

“I didn’t mean it that way at all. I like to skate 
with you, Grace.” 

“No more explanations necessary. Come on.” 

Inside the shack they found Dora and Arthur 
snugly settled by the stove. 

“These skating parties; aren’t they wonderful?” said 
Emerson sarcastically. “Cold as Greenland, freeze 
your toes, get all stiffened up. This stove for me, 
it’s great. Come on over.” 

Craig took off Grace’s skates. 

“My poor ankles! I’m going to hobble now for 
days.” 

“Let’s get Bobs and all go over to our house,” Ar¬ 
thur suggested. “It’s getting darn late to be here. 
She’ll skate all night long unless somebody brings her 
in. Hallowell, you’ve got your skates on, can’t you 
get her ?” 

“Be reasonable,” Grace urged. “She’ll be along in 
a few minutes.” 

The crowd was thinning out now, stamping into the 
cabin, changing shoes and swinging away again in 
automobiles. 

They waited some time. Finally Arthur announced 
with determination that he was going. “I don’t 


THE QUITTER 


198 

intend to spend the night in this God-forsaken hole.” 

Bobs and Jimmy, Don and Elizabeth appeared 
suddenly at the door. 

“Eh,” Emerson grunted. “It’s just about time, 
this stove’s getting stone cold.” 

“Poor old cripple,” Walden said, “you’re about 
ready for the old men’s home, Arthur.” 

“All right about the old men’s home. Hurry up 
and come on back to our house, it’s warm there and I 
can promise you a bit of a drink, too.” 

Craig unlaced Nancy’s skating boots, removing the 
heavy footgear from her feet. 

“My tootsies, they’re frozen,” she said. 

“I don’t wonder at it,” observed her husband. 
“It’s a marvel to me that you don’t catch cold when 
you will persist in wearing those thin silk stockings. 
Look at this!” He held up a foot encased in thick 
woolen socks. “You’re a mystery to me, Bobs, the 
way you go round. I would be dead in two days if I 
tried it.” 

They went outside. Craig asked Nancy if she 
would ride in his car. 

“Oh, that would be nice. Arthur’s such a wild 
driver, I hate to go with him. He’s driving tonight, 
you know. The chauffeur has the evening off. 
Arthur can’t see the road more than fifty feet ahead; 
it’s hectic going. Why look, there’s your wife getting 


THE QUITTER 


199 

in with him now,” she laughed. “I wonder if I ought 
to warn her.” 

They got into the sedan. He pulled a robe from 
the back seat. 

“Better put this over your feet.” When she was 
snugly settled he started the motor and backed out 
into the road. For some reason Nancy was inclined 
to be silent. He, too, found little to say, yet there 
seemed to be no need for words. Would she think 
his silence stupid ? How had he ever been angry with 
her? The horseback ride had upset him at the time, 
but now ... a soft feeling of contentment was 
stealing over him. 

It was only a short run to the Emerson home. He 
wished that it might have been longer. They were 
humming along the main avenue leading into town. 
Intermittently the street lights flickered in their faces 
as they went along and, passing one of the flaming 
arcs, he looked over at her, catching a glimpse of her 
face, black eyes shining in the semi-darkness, throat 
swathed in caressing furs. Why must they go back 
to the others, where light and noise . . . 

He turned up a side street and into the grounds of 
the Emerson place. It was the first time that he had 
been there and it gave him a quiet thrill to realize 
that he was going to her house. Large trees lined 
a gently curving roadway, leading up to where the 


200 


THE QUITTER 


building, set in a grove of pine trees, merged beauti¬ 
fully into its surroundings. In the brilliant light of 
the moon, it looked almost like a stage setting. 

He helped Nancy to alight, a butler opened the door 
and they stepped into the hallway. It was rather a 
gaudy room, that hall with a carved oak ceiling and 
a heavily balustraded stairway, over which lay a dark 
red carpet. The lighting was brilliant. There was 
something garish about the whole appearance of 
things. The place had the look of a small palace, a 
sense of striving for large effects. His roving eye, 
taking in details at a quick glance, was struck by a 
statue set in a niche just under the staircase. It was 
a beautifully carved figure of a naked girl, kneeling be¬ 
fore a pool, the pool itself forming a glorified goldfish 
bowl. It was an exquisitely wrought piece of work, 
but about it, whether in the pose of the body or the 
peculiar smile on the face of the girl, there seemed to 
hang a touch of licentiousness and the whole effect 
of the thing hit him like a blow between the eyes. 

Nancy sensed his feelings and said quietly: “That 
startles you. I hardly wonder. It’s one of Arthur’s 
pets, he loves it. He’s quite a connoisseur of art.” 
And then with a little smile. “Of a sort.” 

The servant took their things and they passed into 
the drawing room. 


THE QUITTER 


201 


“So he got you here safe and sound,” Nancy said, 
addressing Dora. “I’ll venture that it was a wild 
ride.” 

“That’s nice of you, Bobs,” Arthur smirked. “Did 
you think there was going to be an accident? Mrs. 
Hallowell tells me that I’m a very nifty driver; isn’t 
that so?” He turned to Dora for corroboration. 

She nodded. 

“Here, Hallowell, old man,” he continued, “have a 
glass of this Bacardi; you know.” His little eyes 
snapped. 

With Nancy, Craig sat down on a long divan. 
Talk drifted here, there, everywhere. Conversation 
was not brilliant. 

Grace yawned. “Arthur,” she said, “that drink 
was terribly strong. I’m mortal weary. My feet; I 
don’t think I can move them at all.” 

“Let’s play bridge,” he suggested. 

“Oh my God! Kill him, somebody, will you?” 
Don called from across the room where he and Beth 
were seated in a corner. “Bridge? Arthur, you’re 
wild.” 

“Talk about a dead crowd,” Emerson complained. 

“It’s the cold air and exercise and then this drink 
of yours,” Jimmy enlightened him. “You didn’t skate, 
spent your evening behind the stove. No wonder 


202 


THE QUITTER 


you’re lively as a cricket. I want to go home and I 
want to go to bed. Hope I can keep awake until I get 
the car in the garage. Come on, Gracie. ,, 

“Run it right up to your bedroom,” Don suggested, 
“it’s much easier that way.” 

“I had a letter the other day,” Nancy told Craig, 
“from that young chap, you remember him, the boy 
I introduced to you at the dance. He’s joined the 
Foreign Legion and is going over to France, poor 
child.” There was deep feeling in her voice. 

“It’s awful business,” he said. “The Germans 
seem to be wrecking everything: life, civiliza¬ 
tion . . 

“And we here, we, go to skating parties.” Her face 
was grave. “I wonder how long it will last.” 

“You feel it keenly, don’t you?” he observed. “I 
wish that everybody did. Most of us take it all too 
lightly. We read the newspaper accounts, crazy 
names, Ypres and the rest: they mean so little to us, 
it’s all so far away.” 

She was thoughtful. “I feel as though I ought to 
do something, something more than just sit and talk. 
Do you know I envy that boy? I didn’t at first, but 
now, if I were a man, I would get into things.” 

“You’re right. Most of the men I know, in busi¬ 
ness I mean, are thinking only of dollar profits. This 
war is going to make, some of them millionaires.” 


THE QUITTER 


203 


She shuddered. “That’s the pity of it. Why Ar¬ 
thur . . . But there, I shouldn’t talk so, he may be 
right after all.” 

“In my own case,” he told her, “I’m getting much 
more business than if there were no horrors in 
Europe. But I can’t help it, it just comes, that’s 
all.” 

“Oh I know, most of us deaden our consciences that 
way. Take Don, for example, he’s a free lance. A 
man of his type could be of wonderful service.” 

Craig glanced at Walden, deep in admiration of his 
darling Elizabeth. “He’s very much in love,” he 
said. 

“If he wasn’t, he might see differently.” 

Love, how it turned things topsy-turvy. He 
couldn’t blame Walden, though. Why should he miss 
this happiness just for a vision of service in a cause 
that was not his? 

Nancy was speaking his thoughts. “It’s wrong to 
blame him, I suppose. Please forget what I have 
said.” 

“You’re quite an idealist, aren’t you?” 

“Perhaps! We women are so prone to let senti¬ 
ment rule us. We frivol a lot,” she said earnestly. 
“I often wonder why I have never taken life really 
seriously.” 

He was trying to find something to say. “There 


204 


THE QUITTER 

never was any reason why you should not be—well, 
frivolous, was there?” he spoke quietly. 

She looked squarely at him. “No, I don’t suppose 
there was and I fancy many women in Europe are only 
just beginning to realize what life means. It takes a 
jolt to wake us up, doesn’t it?” 

A jolt. How true that was! How true of himself! 
He had blundered along, life was a rut and now . . . 
His wife was talking to him from her seat beside fat 
Emerson. 

“It’s getting late, Craig.” 

He shook hands with Nancy. “Good night, it has 
been a most enjoyable evening.” 

“I hope my opinions about the war are not driving 
you home,” she smiled. “Most people don’t seem to 
want to talk about it. You were very nice to be so 
patient with me.” 

Lying in bed wide awake, he was wondering. This 
dark cloud hanging over the world, some mysterious 
force . . . Don and Elizabeth; love, the fulfillment 
of life’s pleasures. Was he not seeking that himself? 
Nancy’s face forever with him, her voice ringing in 
his ears! And in Europe, horrors unspeakable, men 
and women dying for a cause which they deemed just 
and right. That young stripling; he had taken up his 
lance, had girded on his sword. Why had Nancy 


THE QUITTER 


205 


spoken to him about it? He felt that by her words 
she had established a sort of bond between them. It 
was a surprise, this revelation of her character. 
Wonderful woman. What couldn’t she do if she 
chose? And Arthur, sleek little man, there was no 
sentiment on his horizon. Practical, hard, thinking 
person, how typical he was of a great many people in 
America. 


CHAPTER VII 


Through a long winter the war dragged on, while 
newspaper headlines blazed forth hideous tales. To 
the man in the street it was all a colossal jumble: queer 
sounding names of places that meant nothing to him, 
overnight leaped into prominence, becoming a part of 
the daily language. Przemysl, Ypres, Le Basse, 
strange combinations of letters, native to foreign 
tongues; what significance had they for folks in the 
United States, separated from it all by three thousand 
miles of rolling Atlantic? 

Scanning an editorial in an evening newspaper, 
Craig was struck with this sentence. “This strife is 
civilization against the forces of darkness, the Chris¬ 
tian peoples of the world against the dominance of the 
Hun.” It made one stop and think, that situation 
beyond the great waters. What of civilization, what 
of the future; how long might it continue? Back in 
August it had been predicted that the war might last 
two, perhaps three, months and here it was dragging 
on and on, trench warfare on the Western Front, dig¬ 
ging in, a slow, nerve-racking struggle. Germany, 
surprising the world with her resourcefulness, was 
206 


« 

THE QUITTER 207 

waging a terrible fight against the flower of the rest of 
Europe. 

Then came the sinking of the unarmed Lusitania, 
that act of madmen. Sentiment already strongly 
against them in America, the Huns, by this one deed, 
cast away the least vestige of feeling for their cause. 
Editorial offices all over the broad United States con¬ 
demned the outrage, the country surged with patriotic 
feeling. These peoples, in Europe fighting for hu¬ 
manity, for home and all that men held dear; it was a 
world calamity. 

And so the great urge came to complacent little 
Rockledge. A mass meeting was held in the theater 
to protest against the German methods of warfare. 
The lecturer, a newspaper man, fresh from the front, 
held his audience spell-bound, as he told of deeds 
of heroism, mothers of families left childless over 
night, Prussian cruelties worse than the Spanish 
Inquisition. 

After it was over, Arthur Emerson was inclined to 
minimize much of what they had heard. Y ou can t 
believe all that chap tells you; there’s a lot of it put in 
just for effect.” 

“If it’s only half true, it’s enough,” Don said to him 
quietly. “I’ve made up my mind. I can’t stay here 
doing nothing any longer. I’m too old for the army, 
but ambulance driving—that’s man’s work.” 


208 


THE QUITTER 


Ten days later in the Little Church Around the 
Corner, while Craig stood up as best man for his old 
friend, Don and Elizabeth were quietly married. The 
next day they sailed for France. 

“I can help, I know I can,” Elizabeth told them as 
she kissed Nancy Emerson goodbye. “It’s thrilling 
to find you have a mission in the world. Please don’t 
feel sorry for me. . . 

Nancy’s eyes were full of tears. “Sacrifice, dear, 
makes us all feel very small.” 

They stood at the end of the dock as the steamer 
moved slowly out into the river, waiting until the two 
waving handkerchiefs on the upper deck were but 
white dots in the distance. 

ii 

Hopes and fears, talk of engines of destruction on 
land, in the air and under the sea; this advance along 
a certain sector, that retreat. Summer was nearly 
over when the first letter from Don arrived. 

“I’m alive,” he wrote, “and darn glad of it. My 
trick is to drive a little Ford ambulance and it’s quite 
different from steering a touring car through Central 
Park. We operate under a simple system, don’t have 
any hours for work, just keep at it all the time, day 
and night. Beth, bless her young heart, is nursing 
in a base hospital behind the lines. She had to go 


THE QUITTER 


209 


through a terrible rigmarole before she got placed. 
She’s fairly safe from harm there unless they bomb the 
place, and they’ve done that before. We see each 
other once in a while. We had half an hour together 
last week when I made an emergency trip back. She’s 
a wonderful little woman, Craig. Here in the thick 
of this mess, it’s hard to realize that any place in the 
universe can be quiet and serene. I can’t write you 
an awful lot, there isn’t really much to tell you; one 
day is just like another. In fact they all seem to merge 
together and blur as you look back. I haven’t had my 
clothes off for weeks. I’m caked with mud and grime, 
but I know that everything I ever did, before I came 
here, was picayune and small. I never thought such 
heroism could be possible. You see men risk their 
lives a hundred times an hour. And the spirit, the 
morale, as they call it! Let me tell you just one 
instance and I hope it will get by the censor. 

“One night I was crawling away into the rear of 
the front line to get some wounded men. It was rain¬ 
ing hard and the roads, ripped by shell-fire, were ter¬ 
rible. I picked up my allotment, two soldiers, one, a 
young chap, shot in the leg and suffering terribly, 
frightened, too, for he wasn’t more than a kid. The 
other, a Frenchman, was older, fine looking, with a 
long black beard. He was in a desperate condition, 
wounded in the abdomen, serious business. He no- 


210 


THE QUITTER 


ticed how scared the boy was and when I started to 
put his litter in the bottom tier of the ambulance, he 
protested, wanted the lad to ride there because it would 
be more comfortable. He was all right, he could 
stand the pain; this he told me in whispers. There 
wasn’t much time to argue matters for we were within 
reach of the German guns, so I did as he wished and 
slid the boy’s cot into the lower section, then I put him 
up under the roof and we started back. It must have 
been hell for the poor fellow, jolting about, three 
inches below the top of the rickety little wagon, but 
I never heard a sound out of him. The kid cried out 
every time we hit a bump. We got to the dressing 
station at last and I unloaded. The lad was upset, 
the wound in his leg was bleeding badly. I got the 
Frenchman out; his face was a sickly gray and I saw 
that he was pretty far gone. He hoisted himself up on 
his elbow and, reaching over and patting the boy on the 
head, urged him not to be afraid and told him that 
all would be well. Suddenly he gave a gasp. ‘Vive 
la France!’ he murmured feebly. There was a rattle 
in his throat, and he was dead. 

“Do you wonder now that the Huns didn’t break 
the line to the sea? 

“Beth and I are playing very small parts, but it all 
seems so worth while. I don’t know when we will see 
you again . . 


THE QUITTER 211 

Craig finished the letter. His eyes were dim with 
tears. Good old Don, so typical of him. 

Reading it over again to Dora, that same evening 
after dinner, her only comment was that she was glad 
Freddy was too young to be drawn into all those 
horrors. 

“And I,” Craig assured her, “I would be proud to 
have a son who could take his place in such a struggle. 
How you can feel as you do is beyond my 
comprehension.” 

As always, they could not agree on the subject and 
she finished the argument by telling him that he could 
not be expected to sense a mother's feelings for her 
child. 

hi 

Returning from the country in the fall, Craig found 
that Rockledge was planning to start what it was 
pleased to call a Council of Defense. He was asked 
to join. Nancy Emerson headed the women’s com¬ 
mittee and he saw her very often after the work got 
under way as it was necessary for them to confer 
on many matters. 

The Council held meetings once a week, in the 
rooms of the Administration Building. He enjoyed 
the gatherings immensely. The town was being di¬ 
vided up into districts. There was talk of conserva- 


212 


THE QUITTER 


tion of food supplies and the possibility of war gar¬ 
dens when spring came. But best of all he was learn¬ 
ing to know Bobs better. He admired the swift pre¬ 
cision of her mind, the easy way she grasped details of 
intricate problems, throwing upon them the light of a 
well-balanced judgment. 

“It isn’t very much that we’re doing here,” she said 
to him one night, as he was taking her home from 
a meeting, “but it’s something anyhow, and it makes 
me feel as though I were helping, if only in a very 
small way.” 

“I’m beginning to think,” he told her, “that the part 
of the folks at home may become quite an important 
one. There isn’t much glory in it. . . 

“You would like to be over there where Don 
is, wouldn’t you? I know how you must feel, but 
you have your responsibilities. It’s different with 
him.” 

He wondered just what she meant. Dora . . . ? 
Nothing in the world situation seemed to bother her 
much. Freddy and his daily life was all she thought 
about. Her universe was distinctly circumscribed. 

“I ought to be doing a great deal more,” Nancy 
confided. “With not a chick or child in the world, 
I really haven’t any cares. I can’t think of Elizabeth 
without a feeling of envy, it’s such a wonderful thing 
to be able to serve unselfishly.” 


THE QUITTER 


213 


“Yes, it certainly is,” Craig answered her slowly. 

“I can’t quite make Arthur out,” she continued. 
“He seems so contented with things as they are. Take 
the question of this Council of Defense, he calls it 
‘flubdub,’ says it gets rid of a lot of superfluous en¬ 
thusiasm and that’s about all.” 

“Don’t you think his attitude may be due to the fact 
that he doesn’t want to acknowledge the way he really 
feels?” 

She laughed. “That’s a queer way to put it, but 
you may be right.” 

He left her at her door and continued on home, 
thinking over in his mind the changes that seemed to 
be taking place in everything with which he was con¬ 
nected. Freddy was giving him considerable concern, 
he wasn’t holding his place in school. There was 
something about the boy that he never could seem to 
define. He studied, doing his lessons with apparent 
appreciation of their importance and yet, back of it, 
there was an attitude of shiftlessness, a kind of doing 
things that he was told to do, more through fear than 
through any feeling in his own mind that they were 
right. He did not get along with his teachers; there 
had been many misunderstandings which Dora, in her 
own way, had tried to smooth over. Freddy was de¬ 
veloping an impertinent attitude; it was difficult to 
tell him anything that he did not already know. He 


214 


THE QUITTER 


devoured the newspapers with avidity and, with a mind 
which was naturally clever, picked up stray bits of 
information, forming a thesis of life which was cer¬ 
tainly not at all like anything that Craig, in his young 
days, had imagined possible. He knew every movie 
actor and actress by name and he was conversant with 
most of their private history. Why was it that the 
children of this generation were getting such a grasp 
on things that used to be discussed behind closed 
doors? They were too wise. 

IV 

Old Mrs. Austen evolved a society fete for the 
benefit of French orphans. There was much talk and 
a great deal of planning. The affair took the form 
of a pageant, a congress of nations, France and her 
allies, fighting for humanity. Dora, after a great deal 
of persuading on the part of Grace and Nancy, agreed 
to help, her consent being secured principally because 
they told her that she had been cast in the tableau as a 
French peasant and that the costumes were ever so 
cute. That settled it for her and Craig heard nothing 
else for days. He was inclined to scoff at the whole 
show, thinking it ridiculous. His wife told him that 
Nancy Emerson had been asked to take the part of 
Columbia and was to be the central figure of the main 
tableau. Then Jimmy was drawn into the ranks, to 


THE QUITTER 


215 


enact the part of the President of the French Republic. 
Craig really was glad to be left out, it was a line of 
war activity that did not appeal to him. He would 
go and look on . . . 

He laughed at Jimmy; it was a joke! Jimmy, 
the President of France! But very unexpectedly the 
young man who had been rehearsing the part of the 
King of Belgium was taken ill and Craig, after many 
entreaties on the part of the committee, was pressed 
into service to take his place. It put him in a great 
stew; never in his life had he done such a thing. He 
felt that he would die when he got out on the stage 
before the audience, but Nancy, her black eyes looking 
straight into his, assured him that he was just the very 
man to impersonate the popular young king and ever 
so much better than the one originally chosen. . . . 
After that he was ready to go through with the matter. 

And there was something inspiring about it, too. 
At the dress rehearsal he didn’t experience any of the 
stage fright that he had anticipated, doing his part 
with ease and feeling, while the strains of the patriotic 
music rang in his ears. He felt a sense of exultation 
entirely at variance with what he had expected. 

The great night arrived. The house was packed to 
overflowing. Flags of the Allies were draped along 
the gallery and boxes. Everyone in Rockledge who 
was anyone seemed to be there. 


2 l6 


THE QUITTER 


“It’s going to be a wonderful success/’ Jimmy, or 
rather the voice of Jimmy, said to him, for Craig, turn¬ 
ing suddenly, beheld an elderly man with sedate gray 
beard. 

“Good Lord!” he said. “I would never know you. 
You look a thousand years old.” 

“I don’t feel that way,” Marchmand assured him. 
“I’ll say that I think you’ve got the star part in this 
king business. How does it seem to be a monarch?” 

“When I looked in the mirror after that make-up 
man got through, I felt as though I were looking 
at somebody else and that my own spirit or ego or 
whatever you call it, was hovering off somewhere in 
the distance. I can’t explain just what I mean.” 

“It’s funny,” said Jimmy, “the things we’re doing. 
I’ve always loathed amateur theatricals.” 

They stood in the wings during the first part of 
the performance. The applause was deafening. The 
show was almost over. 

Then came the final tableau. Flags flying, national 
anthems of all those lands across the sea, and Nancy 
Emerson as Goddess of Liberty, her tall figure draped 
in the folds of an American flag; the house went wild 
over that picture. 

Everyone complimented Craig on his appearance as 
King Albert, even Dora assuring him that she was 
ever so proud. For days afterwards Freddy swelled 


THE QUITTER 


217 


out his chest at school. Hadn’t his Dad taken the part 
of the king of that wonderful little country? The 
war had produced no more popular figure; it was a 
part that any man might have been glad to play. 

v 

Day by day the life of Rockledge revolved more and 
more about the war. Folks were thinking deeper 
now, light conversation was almost unknown. Peo-* 
pie discussed the deepest and most intricate problems. 
Slowly but surely the tide of popular feeling swung, 
while the United States backed and filled and vacil¬ 
lated. The Central Powers were collapsing, so it was 
said. But that was an old story, for the Hun was not 
to be trusted. 

Armed neutrality was urged, discussed, yelled 
about, spread abroad in black headlines, breaking out 
in type that had been invented for the occasion; still 
nothing was done. Power was given the Chief Ex¬ 
ecutive to arm all merchant ships and raise money for 
defense purposes. Another American ship went down 
at the hand of a skulking submarine and revolution 
broke out in Russia. The German ambassador at 
Washington left the country; the American represen¬ 
tative at the court of the Hohenzollerns arrived in New 
York. 

Craig heard him address a surging mob in front of 


2 l8 


THE QUITTER 


the City Hall. He was a short, square-built, little 
man who spoke in volcanic phrases, while traffic police¬ 
men tried to keep order. His words were received 
with roars of approval, yells, cat-calls, and shouts of 
“Down with the Kaiser!” When the open air meeting 
broke up, Craig felt that he had just witnessed the 
beginning of a great world crisis; war between Ger¬ 
many and the United States was inevitable. 

And on a gray day early in April, just when the 
buds of a backward spring were beginning to show 
themselves and the earth was ready to burst into life, 
came news of the action of Congress. The blow had 

4 

fallen. Those innocent lives were to be avenged. 
America had found her soul. 

VI 

Twice a week the Rockledge battalion drilled in the 
High School gymnasium. There was no age limit 
there and Craig found himself in a squad along with 
aged men and stripling youths, lads who later would 
be called to the colors through the operations of the 
selective draft which was just commencing to func¬ 
tion. They were a motley crew, that battalion with 
their ill fitting uniforms; tall men, short men, fat men, 
lean men, all fired with enthusiasm. They drilled 


THE QUITTER 


219 


with a seriousness which was out of all proportion to 
their tatterdemalion aspect, they learned the Manual 
of Arms, they had instruction in the use of the rifle. 
Their colonel told them that if all other troops were 
pressed into the service, in emergencies, they might be 
called upon to act as a Home Guard. 

On drill nights the gallery was always well filled: 
wives, sisters and sweethearts watched their evolu¬ 
tions, spurred them on. 

“This toting a seven pound musket around isn’t all 
jam,” Arthur Emerson complained. He had joined 
late and only after much persuading by all his friends 
who were enlisted in the organization. 

Craig laughed at him. “It will help your figure, 
Arthur.” 

He rubbed his right shoulder ruefully. “Hang my 
figure, I wasn’t made to be a soldier. I’m too kind 
hearted and I don’t crave shooting people.” 

“Funny thing,” Jimmy told them. “The squad 
that I’m in, you know. Well, our corporal is that 
bug I had a lawsuit against last year—awfully illit¬ 
erate chap. When he saw me and realized that he was 
my superior officer, you should have seen the look in 
his eye.” 

“And did he do anything horrible to you?” Grace 
asked anxiously. 


220 


THE QUITTER 


“That’s just it, he didn’t. He’s not a bad sort, I 
find. Went to Plattsburg, that’s how he became an 
officer so soon.’’ 

“You marched wonderfully tonight,” Nancy com¬ 
plimented them. “You’re losing that funny wild as¬ 
pect you had at the beginning. I can’t forget that 
first drill night.” 

“We’ll never be the king’s own,” Arthur sighed, 
“but I think that even now we pack a wicked wallop, 
and could give a good account of ourselves if called 
upon. It’s a lot better than no training. Gosh, but 
I’m tired.” 

Out of chaos, order was coming. The draft, oper¬ 
ating in marvelous fashion, was taking the young 
blood of the nation, from the depths of New York’s 
East Side and the mansions on Fifth Avenue, from 
the far away plains of Arizona and the woods of 
Maine. Great war cities, cantonments they called 
them, another of those new words which were taken 
up to form a part of the daily language, sprang into 
being almost over night, rising like dream cities in 
all parts of the country. 

Not many miles from Rockledge, one such vast or¬ 
ganization got under way. Nancy Emerson was head 
of the canteen and there she found her chance for 
service, spending her days helping to brighten the 


THE QUITTER 


221 


lives of thousands of lads, torn from home and 
friends and set down suddenly in strange surround¬ 
ings. Grace was her right hand. On Saturdays 
Craig went over to the teeming military city; he always 
found plenty to do there. It was inspiring, this work¬ 
ing directly in contact with the doughboys. They 
were grateful for the smallest favors. 

VII 

The vast assembly hall was jammed with soldiers, 
khaki-clad boys singing with lusty voices, while the 
rafters shook. ‘‘Keep the Home Fires Burningthe 
melody surged out in wild waves of sound. 

Craig stood in the rear of the auditorium with 
Grace and Nancy. Bobs turned and looked at him, 
in her eyes a great tenderness. 

“We will keep them burning,” she said softly. 
“We must, it’s a trust that has been given to us.” 

He noticed that she was pale; there were dark cir¬ 
cles under her eyes. “You’re all tired out,” he told 
her. 

“She’s been here continuously for almost two 
weeks,” Grace said. “Honestly, dear, you ought to 
get a little rest.” She put her arm affectionately about 
Nancy’s waist. 

Nancy protested with a nervous little laugh, “Don’t 
be absurd, I’m all right.” 


222 


THE QUITTER 


“Can’t you prevail upon her?” Grace appealed to 
Craig. “Take her out in your car for a while, into the 
country. She needs a breath of fresh air.” 

Nancy strenuously objected. 

“Please go,” Grace urged. “You know we’re get¬ 
ting in a new contingent tonight. You don’t want to 
be all used up when they come, do you?” 

“It’s silly of you to insist, but I am weary I guess 
and . . 

“Of course you are. Run along and don’t come 
back until late this afternoon. I can manage every¬ 
thing. Some of the other girls are coming over at 
noon, I’ll have plenty of help.” 

His small runabout waiting, Craig helped Nancy in 
and they drove out through the gates of the canton¬ 
ment, where a sentry saluted stiffly. Bobs took a 
long, deep breath. 

“This is going to do me lots of good, but it’s ter¬ 
ribly selfish to take you away when there are so many 
things that you might . . 

“Oh bother that!” he answered lightly. “Can’t you 
understand what a pleasure it’s going to be to me? 
I never expected such a delightful assignment when I 
came over this morning. We are going to lunch at a 
little inn I know about, a quaint place where we can 
forget all about war for a few hours.” 


THE QUITTER 


223 


Over a smooth road the car hummed along. It was 
a brilliant June day, white cottony clouds floated high 
overhead, and in the air were sweet scents of meadow 
grass and bursting flowers. 

“I wonder what the colonel would say if he should 
happen to meet us,” she said languidly. “One of his 
workers stealing away on a joy ride.” 

“I don’t know what he would say, but I’m sure 
he would envy me. We’re going to have a bully 
time.” 

“Oh, are we?” She brightened. “Drj,ve on then. 
I’m not going to be curious, not going to even ask 
you where you are taking me.” 

Through the meadows the highway ran, a broad 
white line; at last on the heights of the ridge back 
of the Palisades, after the car had climbed the steep 
slope, it straightened out on top. Along a narrow by¬ 
way, then cutting into the main road again, they 
stopped at a small cottage, set on the very edge of the 
cliffs, overlooking the river. 

Parking the runabout in the grass close by the en¬ 
trance, they went inside. With many smiles, the 
small, fat proprietor greeted them. Would they not 
enjoy having lunch on the balcony where they could 
see the view? He led the way, ushering them into a 
snug retreat, which seemed as though it were sus¬ 
pended in mid-air. Honeysuckle vines, trained on a 


224 


THE QUITTER 


wooden trellis, gave to the place the aspect of a wood¬ 
land bower. Little pots of spring flowers, set in 
boxes on the railing, made bright patches of brilliant 
color. 

‘‘Why, this is perfect!” Nancy enthused. “How did 
you ever discover it ? I never knew there was 
anything half so attractive/’ 

The proprietor bowed. “I am glad that Madame 
approves. We have tried to make here a little bit of 
my own country, la belle France. It is quaint, is it 
not? Therjp, see,” he pointed with a fat finger, “way 
down there along the river, your troop ships, they are 
waiting to take your boys over to fight for our poor 
bleeding land.” 

“How long have you been here?” Bobs asked him. 

“We come just before the war break out, my wife 
and I. We buy this little place. My son, he is com¬ 
ing later and then—” He stiffened his small body 
and squared his shoulders. “He died on the fields of 
France, Madame; we are alone here now, just we 
two.” 

Nancy’s eyes were brimming. “It was wonderful, 
wasn’t it?” she said quietly. 

He nodded, wiping away the suspicion of a tear. 

“Your order, please. My wife does all the cooking 
and I can promise that she knows how.” He helped 
them, making naive suggestions. “The endive, it is 


THE QUITTER 225 

good, and some Camembert with the coffee ?” he 
shuffled away toward the kitchen. 

It was very quiet there on the tiny balcony, bees 
buzzing lazily about among the vines, and they talked 
in low tones, like people who fear to disturb someone. 
Craig watched the color stealing back into her cheeks 
and the tired look slowly leaving her eyes. He mar¬ 
veled at the radiance of her beauty. Never had he 
seen her more lovely. She treated him with an open 
frankness that was altogether bewitching. He won¬ 
dered if she realized that he loved her madly, passion¬ 
ately, devotedly, that to him she had become the one 
object in all the world, that for her sake he was ready 
to do anything. 

A great surge of feeling passed over him. Why 
not tell her now? Why not pour out the story of 
his passion? But her serene, untroubled brow, those 
eyes looking at him from under the gently curving 
lashes . . . He lowered his gaze. She would laugh if 
she knew. In his madly beating heart, he felt a great 
tenderness. These few short hours alone with her! 
He had never known a paradise till now. 

They lingered long over the coffee, while she 
smoked many cigarettes. He wished that she would 
not smoke so much, it wasn’t good for her. 

“I’m wonderfully rested,” she said at last. “Hadn’t 
we better be going?” 


226 


THE QUITTER 


It startled him, that thought of leaving. Why not 
go on like this forever . . . , but the sun was drawing 
low; already the shadows were creeping along the 
cliffs below the inn. If only he dared to tell her. . . . 
He paid the check, and the small proprietor bowed 
them to the door. 

In the west a brilliant sunset burned, and as they 
passed back over the meadows, the long marsh grass, 
softly waving in the evening breeze, was tinged with 
delicate pink. 

“What a sight!” Nancy sighed. “Can one believe 
that in such a world with all this beauty, men can make 
war, can kill each other? Oh, the brutality of it!” 

At the canteen he left her and as they parted he 
thought that he detected in the soft pressure of her 
warm fingers something that he had never found there 
before. 

“Goodbye,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much 
I’ve enjoyed the last few hours.” 

He could not trust himself with speech. Swinging 
into the driver’s seat, he waved his hand as the car 
drew away. 


CHAPTER VIII 


July, coming in with burning heat, drove them 
from Rockledge for a while. 

‘Tm tired of this eternal war stuff,” Arthur Emer¬ 
son announced to Craig one evening, as they came 
home from the steaming city together. “It’s terrible 
here. I’m going to take Nancy away to a place where 
we can forget that there is such a thing as strife and 
bloodshed. Why don’t you come along and bring 
Dora and the boy with you? Up there where we are 
going in the woods of Maine, it’s just about perfect. 
Rest. We all need it.” 

Craig wondered who his kind fairy might be. 
What had put such a marvelous idea into Arthur’s 
head. Some wonderful thing, this chance to be 
with Bobs. He responded to the invitation with 
enthusiasm. 

Dora, too, for once in her life, agreed readily to 
the plan. It would be so good for Freddy. He 
needed a change, poor dear. The high dry air was 
what he craved. But she must buy a great many 
things before they could start; you couldn’t go into the 
wilderness lacking proper equipment. 

227 


228 


THE QUITTER 


“Go on, get anything you want,” Craig told her. 
It pleased him to see his wife keen about something. 
He hoped that she would fall readily into the life. As 
for himself, days when he and Bobs could be together 
hour after hour all seemed much too good to be 
true. Years since he had been away in the woods. 
Not since school days. 


ii 

Passamumqua Lake, a bright jewel in its setting of 
dense forests, was a paradise. Life there ran along 
easy paths. Log camps built among giant spruces and 
comfortably furnished; there were just enough of the 
little ordinary conveniences of civilization to rub off 
rough edges. 

The journey was a difficult one. There had been 
long, tiresome miles of jerky railroading, then two 
hours of lurching buckboard, and at the end a weary 
trip in canoes. 

“This is an outpost of civilization, all right,” Ar¬ 
thur said on the evening of their arrival, as they 
dumped heavy duffel bags on the floor. “But it’s go¬ 
ing to suit me down to the ground. I’m not hanker¬ 
ing for the vicinity of New York. The government is 
getting too darn nosey, wants to know every little 
thing about a man’s business; well, they can do a bit 


THE QUITTER 229 

of guessing for a while, me for a hammock and a 
book.” 

The country, wild and covered with almost impene¬ 
trable forests, had been but little spoiled by lumbering. 
There were few trails. Emerson and Dora spent 
most of the daylight hours on the comfortable piazza. 
She had a horror of getting lost, also she detested 
canoes and on the long paddle up from the end of 
the buckboard road, she had almost been hysterical 
through nervousness. 

With Nancy and young Freddie, Craig paddled 
miles on the lake, meandering up small inlets, where 
lush meadows met the water’s edge and where, in the 
late afternoons, they watched the timid deer. Ansen, 
the guide, when free from his manifold camp duties, 
took them on long tramps through the woods, where 
giant trees, ages old, their tops seeming to pierce the 
blue sky, made gloom at mid-day. They trod silent 
moss-covered trails, Nancy always with him, close by 
his side. With the sound of her voice, her laughter 
in his ears, Craig felt within himself a wonderful 
contentment; those hours were heaven. When shad¬ 
ows lengthened, they would walk slowly homeward, 
the chill that precedes darkness enveloping them. By 
the time they reached the cabin, with its cheerful 
sputtering fire, it was black night, and overhead was 
a myriad of stars. Conflict, the horrors of the great 


230 


THE QUITTER 


war, how far away . . . Here, in the bosom of wild 
nature, nothing was changed, would ever change. 


hi 

Came a day of fearful heat, when the lake lay like a 
mirror of polished metal. All morning, sheltered 
from the sun’s fierce rays, they had been playing 
bridge, in the shade of the small piazza. Craig was 
sick and tired of the game, it bored him to distraction. 
Nancy’s mind was not on the cards in her hand. She 
made a couple of foolish plays. Dora and Arthur 
won a rubber. 

At dinner time they moved the table out under the 
trees. There was more of a breeze there. Conversa¬ 
tion lagged, the meal was a silent one. 

Arthur lighted a heavy cigar. “If it’s as hot as this 
way up here, I’m glad I’m not in New York.” Then 
he sighed with an intense satisfaction. “That cook 
of ours certainly knows his business, I’m gaining a 
pound a day, worse luck!” 

“You don’t take enough exercise,” Nancy advised. 
“You just eat and sleep. If you keep on you’ll be 
ready for the side shows.” 

He stretched himself. “Exercise! I’m resting.” 

How like a big animal, Craig was thinking, taking 
his comfort, luxuriating always. . . . 


THE QUITTER 


231 


The afternoon wore on. Freddy, busy making a 
trap in the cook shack with the guide, was tingling 
with excitement at the prospect of catching some wild 
animals. Dora, knitting needles clicking, sat in the 
shadow of the cabin. In the hammock Arthur lay 
sleeping. A drowsy hum of insects filled the air. 
Craig felt restless. This sitting around . . . He 
wandered down to Nancy, seated under a giant pine 
tree, close to the shore. She was reading a book and 
made a place for him beside her. How would she 
like to go out in the canoe. It wasn’t any hotter there. 
They could find a shady place under the lee of the 
shore. . . . 

The sun beat down with a fierce, intense heat. He 
dipped his paddle languidly in the water. Nancy, 
reclining in the bow, sat facing him, her back pillowed 
against a cushion. The brim of her hat shaded her 
eyes, he could see just the tip of her chin and one 
of her small ears. She dangled her hand in the water, 
small ripples gurgling over her fingers as they moved 
silently along. 

“Where shall we go?” he asked her, keenly con¬ 
scious of the fact that they were alone. 

She smiled up at him. “To the meadows on the 
other shore, I love it there.” 

He bent his shoulders to the paddle, sending the 
canoe ahead with long, vigorous strokes. High over- 


232 


THE QUITTER 


head the blue vault of heaven, around them the wilder¬ 
ness, two, in an eternity of space. His temples 
throbbed, he took long breaths. 

“You are energetic,” she told him, “on a sizzling 
day like this, too. Can’t I help?” She picked up the 
other paddle lying beside her. 

He shook his head. “No, let me . . 

The lake was a good two miles wide and when they 
reached the other side he sat resting, the blood pound¬ 
ing through his veins. They were up in a shallow in¬ 
let, where all about lily pads lay green on placid water. 
Silence everywhere; the sun drew behind a dark cloud 
bank. 

“If we stay here quietly, we may see a deer,” he 
whispered. She sat very still while he watched the 
slow rise and fall of her gentle bosom. She seemed, 
buried in deep thought, lost to all about her. Won¬ 
derful woman, what if he . . . 

A clumsy blue heron flew slowly over the marsh¬ 
land, croaking his guttural cry. Swarms of black flies 
buzzed about. Nancy endeavored to brush them 
aside. 

“Aren’t they pests?” Craig said in a low voice, 
“always are millions of ’em at this time of the year.” 
He turned his head suddenly, then, “Look, over there 
by the big birch.” 

Out from the rim of the forest stepped a doe, head 


THE QUITTER 


233 


held high, sniffing the wind, great ears stretching for¬ 
ward to catch the slightest sound. She waded among 
the lily pads, gazing long at the motionless canoe, 
then buried her head in the cool water while her short 
tail swished incessantly at persistent insects. Craig 
pushed his paddle deep down into the mud, and they 
moved ahead, silently, swiftly, coming closer and 
closer to the unsuspecting animal. Suddenly she 
looked up with a quick jerk, sensing the unknown 
terror rapidly approaching, and like a flash of light, 
wheeled about, leaping away into the forest with long, 
graceful bounds, white tail waving like a flag as she 
went. 

“Did you ever see such a lovely sight?” Nancy ex¬ 
claimed enthusiastically. “I never was so excited in 
all my life. Why I could almost have stretched out my 
hand and touched her. I’m all goose flesh with the 
thrill of it.” 

He laughed, slowly, “There is something about it 
that thrills, getting so close to these wild creatures; it’s 
exciting; not much like seeing them at the zoo.” 

“The zoo! ... I won’t forget this experience as 
long as I live.” 

“Forget,” he said it half to himself. She looked 
keenly at him a moment, almost, he thought, she must 
divine his thoughts. 

They waited now for quite a long time, but the 


234 


THE QUITTER 


little bounding deer did not show herself again. 

Off in the distance, thunder growled, reverberating 
on the still air with an ominous sound. Upon his 
bared arm, Craig felt a drop of rain, and glancing 
out of the inlet towards the lake, he saw it was lash¬ 
ing into white caps. A flash of lightning zigzagged 
across the sky. 

“I think we had better go ashore here somewhere,” 
he told her, quietly, and swung the canoe about to¬ 
wards open water. “We can’t cross with this storm 
coming, the waves will be too high.” 

Once out of the cove, the full force of the gale 
struck them. The canoe shipped water over the bow. 
Nancy gave him a look of startled inquiry. 

“It’s going to be all right,” he assured her, “I’ll 
slide in beside that rock. We’ll land and get in under 
the shelter of the big spruces. It isn’t going to be a 
bad storm,” but even as he said it, he knew that he 
was lying, for the sky was inky black, and the rain 
pelted down. 

With some difficulty in the face of the whistling 
gale, he grounded the canoe on a small strip of beach. 
A violent clap of thunder made the earth tremble, the 
heavens opened, rain descended in a deluge. 

In a sheltered spot, back some few rods from the 
shore, he found a birch tree, and tearing off long strips 
of bark, he managed to start a fire. Nancy, all this 


THE QUITTER 


235 


time, had said nothing. He marveled at her courage. 
It was almost pitch dark now and, when for a fleeting 
instant the lightning zipped, they could see the waters 
of the lake, a wrath of angry foam. He hauled two 
old logs to their retreat, and laid them on the fire, 
where in spite of the water which dripped incessantly 
through the branches overhead, they burned, the resin¬ 
ous wood sputtering and crackling cheerfully, sending 
out a thick, pungent odor. Nancy’s clothes were very 
wet, her thin silk sweater clung to her body like a 
sheath. Her hat, drooping and wilted, hung limply 
about her face. Inwardly he raged . . . Why hadn’t 
he brought one of the rubber coats from the camp? 
She might take cold . . . this shivering rain . . . 

His countenance was very rueful. She looked up 
at him, her eyes dancing with mirth, “I’ve never seen 
such a funny sight,” she laughed. “Why the rain 
is running right off the tip of your nose, and down 
your neck. You’re soaked through, you must be 
freezing.” 

“Me? I’m not cold, it’s you I’m thinking about. 
That little thin sweater . . . what an ass I was not 
to bring a coat for you.” 

They sat down close to the fire, which was bravely 
struggling to burn, while great fat drops of water fell 
constantly into it, hissing, and sending up small clouds 
of steam. 


236 


THE QUITTER 


“It’s a brave little blaze, isn’t it?” Nancy said mus¬ 
ingly. “Don’t you love the smell of an open fire in 
the woods?” 

He nodded, lost in thought, his mind full of anxi¬ 
eties for her safety. 

The wind, lashing the tops of the tall pines, shrieked 
about their shelter, sending the smoke from the fire, 
upward in great swirls. “I think that the worst of 
the storm is over,” he told her at last, and started to 
get up. There was a blinding flash, the air was rent 
with a sound like the crashing of the universe and he 
found himself with his arms about Nancy, her head 
upon his shoulder. For a fleeting instant he could 
feel the wild beating of her heart, his cheek caressed 
the smoothness of her neck. 

“You must think me a poor sort to give way like 
that,” she said, while the color slowly mounted to her 
temples. “Can you forgive me ? I didn’t know that I 
was such a coward.” 

“Coward?” he looked at her. “Why you are the 
bravest little woman in all the world. Look, that tree, 
not fifty feet back of us, it’s split from top to bottom— 
it was a close call.” 

The wind had lulled for a moment and the rain 
eased off; over the lake spread a faint glow. 

“It’s after sunset, isn’t it?” Nancy observed, a note 


THE QUITTER 237 

of anxiety in her tone. “Hadn’t we better be starting 
back—the water is calmer now?” 

Home . . . Fat Arthur, sitting snug before the 
fireplace; home . . . this paradise with Bobs slipping 
away. He parted the bushes, walking out upon the 
beach where they had left the canoe. Peering in that 
gathering darkness, he realized, all at once, that it was 
not there, the fury of the gale had broken the light 
craft loose, it had floated away. He leaned against 
a tree, trying to collect his thoughts. She was close 
beside him. 

“It’s gone, isn’t it?” she said simply. 

He nodded, gazing down at her. 

“We can’t get back to camp tonight,” he said, “it’s 
a ten mile walk along the shore of the lake, and there 
isn’t any trail.” 

Her voice came back firm and even, “If we had the 
canoe it would be dangerous, wouldn’t it? Look, the 
wind is rising, and it’s raining again,” she shivered 
a little. 

His mind was working rapidly. Staying out there 
in the soaking wet woods all night would be a trying 
experience for her. He remembered that Ansen had 
told him one time of a cabin somewhere on this side— 
a shack that he used in the winter on trapping expedi¬ 
tions. He spoke his thoughts. 


238 


THE QUITTER 


“There’s a shack near here, I think, not very far 
back from shore. I’ve a fair idea where it is located. 
We’d better try and find it, for it is getting pretty 
dark.” 

He could hardly see her now in the gloom, but he 
heard her sigh, and she roused herself as though from 
a deep reverie. 

“I think that whatever trail there is, must be back 
somewhere near where we built the fire,” he continued. 
“I noticed an opening in the trees when I was hauling 
in those logs a while ago. There’s an old wood road, 
I guess.” They retraced their steps. 

In the forest, black night had fallen. He took her 
firmly by the arm, to guide her steps. The ashes of 
their small fire lay smouldering—they had to feel 
their way. Some few rods back, the wall of trees 
opened out, a dull grayness, coming from above, 
made traveling easier, and he realized that they were 
on an ancient trail. Slowly they toiled along. Tan¬ 
gles of wild raspberry and thorn bushes tore at their 
clothes as they passed. It was raining very hard. 
Craig knew well that in an unknown country, wild 
and deserted as this was, it would be easy to get lost, 
and he was just about making up his mind to turn 
back and chance it where the old fire lay dying, when 
suddenly, through the blackness ahead of them, he saw 
a solid mass, looming out from the indistinctness of 


THE QUITTER 239 

the background. He tightened his hold upon Nancy. 
“I think that’s the cabin in front of us now.” 

She murmured something which, in the agitated 
state of his mind, he did not quite understand. 

They continued on. The thorn bushes, clutching at 
their ankles, thinned out. Their feet trod on soft, 
yielding grass, then his exploring outstretched hand 
came in contact with a smooth, cold substance, which 
felt like a pane of glass. 

“Here we are,” he said triumphantly. “This must 
be the shack . . . there . . .” With fumbling fingers, 
he found the latch, pushed open the creaking door, 
and entered. A damp, musty smell assailed them. 
The feeble light of a match disclosed a small, barren¬ 
looking room, the log walls chinked with moss. The 
flame died and left them in utter darkness. Nancy 
breathed heavily. He lit another match, and then, on 
a shelf above a ramshackle stove, saw a candle. Light¬ 
ing it, he held it high above his head, and the illumina¬ 
tion brought details from the far corners of the place; 
two chairs, a small stove, a table, some pots and pans, 
a battered water pail, and in one corner, a bunk over 
which, slung on a pole, were some moth-eaten blankets. 
He set the candle on the table. 

“Look,” he cried, “wood all cut and ready over 
there in that box, we’ll have things warm and snug.” 

Lifting stove lids, he laid the kindling and applied 


240 


THE QUITTER 


a match. The draft was none too good, smoke poured 
into the room. Choking and coughing, he fanned 
the opening with his dripping hat brim. The wood 
commenced to blaze, the little stove roared. . . . 

He turned to Nancy, standing in the middle of the 
floor, a drooping, dejected figure, “Let me bring up a 
chair for you, here beside the fire?” She sat down 
dully, stretching her drenched feet towards the wel¬ 
come heat, appearing to be in a kind of daze. The 
flickering candlelight threw strange shadows on the 
rough walls. He spoke to her, in a tender tone, 
“Bobs, you don’t feel cold now, do you?” 

She shook her head. He wanted to say something 
more, but her silence chilled the words upon his 
lips; best to leave her to herself for a while; she was 
probably suffering from the shock of this unusual 
experience. 

Fussing about the shack, he discovered an old lan¬ 
tern, and shaking it vigorously, the sound told him 
that there was oil. 

“Now we can have a real illumination,” he ex¬ 
claimed enthusiastically. She smiled at him, a wan 
smile. 

He picked up the battered pail, “There must be a 
spring around here somewhere,” he said. “I’m going 
out to find it. I’m dead with thirst. I won’t be long.” 

At that, she roused herself suddenly, “No,” she 


THE QUITTER 


241 


pleaded, springing up from her chair, “please don’t go, 
Craig, I can’t stay here . . . alone,” and stretching 
out her arms, “without you.” 

“Bobs,” he faltered, and through his being he felt 
the thrill of a great longing, “darling” . . . She 
swayed, and catching her in his arms, he pressed her 
soft, warm body to him in a passionate embrace, his 
lips close to hers. 

Arms about his neck, she clung to him, and looking 
up with eyes wet with tears, “I’ve fought it,” she said 
softly, “I’ve fought it, and now . . . it’s Fate, isn’t 
it . . . dear?” 

He kissed her again and again, burying his face in 
the dark, fragrant masses of her hair. 

“Fate?” he almost sobbed. “No, not that . . . the 
storm. It was God’s will, He knows how I’ve suf¬ 
fered all these years. I loved you that first night I 
saw you—I didn’t realize it then, but . . . well, I had 
to have you, Bobs, my own, my love, you never be¬ 
longed to anyone else through all the ages.” 

She made no audible answer, holding him tight 
while, in the dim light, he watched her eyelids quiver. 
Her cheeks were flaming. Crushed close to him, he 
could feel the soft loveliness of those dear breasts; 
the wild fluttering of her heart, like incense the per¬ 
fume of her body wafted up to him. Trembling with 
passion, he picked her up in his arms, showering her 


242 THE QUITTER 

face with kisses. For an instant he stood with that 
sweet burden, then, crossing the little room in one 
swift step, he laid her down upon the rough log 
bed. . . . His great hands shook as he caressed her. 


CHAPTER IX 


Dawn breaking over the world, a sky swept clean 
of clouds, sweet odors of damp earth and dripping 
vegetation, not a breath stirred the tops of the tall, 
silent pine trees. A red sun, creeping slowly over the 
forest, sent forth warm rays of light. 

From the chimney of the cabin, smoke was ascend¬ 
ing, a thin line rising straight upward in the still air. 
Chattering shrilly, two squirrels frisked about in front 
of the door. Suddenly it was opened and they scam¬ 
pered away up a convenient tree, where they scolded 
the intruder who had burst in upon their wilderness. 

Standing in the doorway, Craig drank in the love¬ 
liness of the morning. Was this the place that they 
had entered last night in the midst of that wild storm? 
Impossible. This scene of perfect peace that lay be¬ 
fore him; what magic wand had wrought the change ? 
He remembered the pounding of his heart at the mo¬ 
ment they found the cabin, the look of terror in her 
eyes when he proposed going to find the spring, and 
now . . . 

He went back into the shack. Nancy was still 
243 


244 


THE QUITTER 


sleeping, lips parted slightly, cheeks glowing with 
faint color. Tenderly he bent over her, placing a kiss 
gently upon her brow. She stirred, then, with a sud¬ 
den start, awoke, sitting bolt upright, looking about 
her with a startled face. He put his arms around her. 
“Dearest, it’s daylight. The storm is over. The most 
wonderful day you have ever seen. . . She clung 
to him; he ran his hand caressingly over her head. 

“And, now, we must go back.” She said the words 
slowly. 

He took her hands in his, “Why think of that, dear? 
You love me, nothing else matters.” 

A shadow crossed her face. She started to speak, 
but he laid his finger on her lips, “Hush, I know what 
you are thinking.” Then as an excess of feeling 
possessed him, “What do we care about the opinion 
of the world; isn’t our love all, is there anything 
more?” He said the words fiercely, his jaws set in 
a determined line. 

Through the small window of the cabin, sunlight 
flooded about them, a sweet, scented breeze wafted in 
from the open door. The place was very still. 

And so for a few brief moments they talked that 
language of love, old as the world itself, low whis¬ 
pered words of endearment, soft voices pitched to a 
delicate cadence. . . . 

“Bobs, my own, why can’t we go on like this for- 


THE QUITTER 


245 


ever?” he murmured. “Why, just when we have 
found each other, must you be taken from me? It’s 
damnable, I tell you, this rotten sham, this awful play 
acting. I can’t stand it, I know I can’t.” 

“Please don’t,” she gently urged him, “don’t make 
it doubly hard. Do you imagine that you are the 
only one who suffers?” 

“No, no, but can you go back to them, now, 
after—?” He was sobbing now. “Must we go on 
with this dreadful comedy? God, it makes my blood 
fairly boil when I think of it.” 

For answer, she took him gently by the hand, lead¬ 
ing him out of the shack into the glory of the morning. 


11 

In the chinks between two logs, outside the door, 
he placed a bit of broken mirror, setting the pail of 
water on a rude bench underneath. Nancy buried her 
face in the liquid coolness. Lying in the grass at 
her feet, he watched with fascinated eyes while she 
plaited her long black hair, marveling at her dexterity 
in tucking in unruly locks, patting, smoothing . . . 
His heart was heavy. 

When she had finished her rude toilette, she turned 
about and faced him. “Now, I’m ready . . .” 

“No, no,” he said fiercely, “I can’t go, Bobs. That 


246 


THE QUITTER 


means losing you. How can I leave you, how can 
we . . . ?” He clutched at her hand. 

She picked up the pail and the piece of broken mir¬ 
ror, setting them inside the cabin. Then closing the 
door softly, she drew his arm about her waist; together 
they started down the old road. 

In the thickets all about birds were singing: at their 
feet a fat partridge whirred upward. They walked 
very slowly, pausing among the raspberry bushes, 
while he picked great handfuls of the luscious fruit 
for her, speaking but little. That way, which in the 
darkness and turmoil of the previous night had been 
so long, so toilsome, now seemed but a step and all 
too soon they stood beside the lake. Away on the 
opposite shore a smudge of smoke against the sky line 
marked the camps. 

“Ansen must have started out long ago,” Craig ob¬ 
served quietly. “We’ll have to wait here till he finds 
us.” 

She trembled a little. 

‘‘Don’t,” he pleaded, “. . . meeting them again . . .” 

“But we’ll never forget.” Her eyes brimmed with 
tears. “You do love me . . .” 

“Love you ? Forget ?” His voice was hoarse with 
emotion. 

She laid a restraining hand on his arm and pointed 
off over the water to where a black spot, a mere 


THE QUITTER 


247 

dot, lay upon the shining expanse. “Look, Ansen’s 
coming!” 

The dot grew larger. They could see the old guide 
now, bending to his task, the light canoe shooting 
ahead under the impetus of his long, powerful strokes. 
He saw them, waved his hand and a few seconds later 
came the sound of his long, “Halloo, halloo,” float¬ 
ing toward them like a voice calling from another 
world. The bow grated on the beach. 

Ansen jumped out. “I knew you was all right,” he 
exclaimed delightedly. “Lord, you did give us a 
scare!” He shook hands heartily. “Why didn’t you 
paddle back this mawnin’?” 

Craig told him of the loss of the canoe. 

“She did sure blow some,” the old man said. “Mrs. 
Hallowell just about went wild with it all. Spent 
the night here, did yuh ? I reckon it wasn’t a pleasant 
experience, must have got purty wet. I tried to scout 
around last evenin’, but it was that black and with the 
gale a-blowin’ and the rain coming down so, you 
couldn’t ha’ come back if you’d had the dang canoe. 
Had a fire, did yuh % ? Weren’t so bad after you got a 
fire, I guess, must have been hard keeping it goin’. 
Tumble right in th’ canoe, you two must be ready for 
breakfast. I’m dang glad I found yuh so soon.” 

“Let me take the stern paddle,” Craig urged. “I 
want some exercise.” 


248 


THE QUITTER 


“Go along,” Ansen laughed. “You git in front, in 
the bow. Let the missus sit there in the center, I’ll 
let you help with the bow paddle.” 

He pushed off, rattling on with his incessant flow of 
conversation. Craig wished that he wouldn’t talk so 
much. His mind was in a tumult. They were taking 
him back, he was being torn away from Bobs, his 
Bobs, and now they must each wear a mask. He 
must hide this passion within the depths of his being. 
Only a few short hours ago they had crossed right 
here, almost in this selfsame spot. He had watched 
the sunlight playing on her face, her smile, the look 
in her eyes, that light of love, of true under¬ 
standing . . . 

Details of the shore line were becoming visible, the 
tall spruces beside the cabin. Arthur Emerson was 
on the piazza steps, a pair of binoculars to his eyes. 
Dora was beside him, her brilliant red sweater stand¬ 
ing out boldly against the dull background. She 
waved her handkerchief. Down by the shore stood 
Freddy, shading his eyes with his hand. The canoe 
grated on the sandy beach. 

“Hello, Dad,” the boy called. # “Did you get awful 
wet ?” 

Craig helped Nancy out, he felt the gentle pressure 
of her hand. 

Emerson and Dora came toward them. 


THE QUITTER 


249 

“Bobs,” said Arthur, “you sure did give us a pretty 
scare. Where the devil did you go?” 

Craig was facing his wife. 

“I nearly went frantic,” she told him. “Why did 
you do such a foolish thing? You had us all upset.” 

“How could we help it,” he blazed. “The storm 
came suddenly out of a clear sky. We went ashore, 
the canoe drifted away. Good Lord, you could 
hardly expect us to walk around the shore through 
miles of trackless forest.” 

“We thought you were drowned or something. I 
never put in such a night. Arthur was awfully kind.” 
Then giving him a searching glance from head to 
heels, “Mercy, how you look! Your clothes are still 
damp. Come along, get some dry things on. You 
mustn’t take cold away up here without a doctor.” 
She led him away towards the camp. 


hi 

And now began the wearing of the mask, while he 
smothered his feelings behind a forced gaiety. How 
he admired Nancy during those trying days. Clumsy 
Arthur with his crude jokes, she must loathe the man. 
At times Craig would meet her eyes and in their depths 
see that love light burning. It maddened him, a 
rotten sham, this life of lying. How she must be suf- 


250 


THE QUITTER 


fering. Never could they steal a moment alone any 
more, always someone was about. He longed to ca¬ 
ress her, to murmur over and over those words of 
tenderness. The chance never offered, only the sight 
of her dear face, a glance, a smile: but wasn’t that 
something? She was near him, her presence like a 
benediction, hovering over him in the darkness of the 
night, when his whirling mind made sleep impossible. 
He comforted himself with the thought that in the 
morning he would see her once more, look upon her. 
She was still here, she would not go away . . . 

The days sped swiftly by, days of sunshine, of 
peace, in the forest, on the lake. 

Arthur took a sudden interest in fishing and with 
Nancy and Ansen spent most of his time on the water. 
He was not a clever angler, swishing his line back and 
forth in vain endeavors. 

Craig induced Dora to get in a canoe. He tried to 
teach her the use of the rod, but she couldn’t mas¬ 
ter it. 

“Oh bother the silly thing,” she said petulantly. “I 
don’t see how anybody can take an interest in this.” 

Evenings were spent with Emerson’s eternal bridge 
games, but Craig didn’t mind now, it gave him a good 
chance to gaze at Nancy. Arthur berated him 
soundly for his stupidness at the game ... he didn’t 


care. 


THE QUITTER 


251 


IV 

The morning of their departure dawned dark and 
gloomy. Ansen called them just before sunrise, they 
breakfasted by candlelight, bundling into the canoes as 
the thin streaks of dawn filtered through gray cloud 
banks. Dora couldn’t find Freddy’s heavy sweater. 
“He must have left it somewhere about, it was almost 
new.” She fussed all the way down the lake to the 
buckboard landing where the lumbering vehicle was 
waiting for them. 

“My Lord,” moaned Arthur, “have I got to ride in 
that thing again?” He helped Dora into a seat, 
climbing in beside her, then looked at Craig and 
Nancy. “I suppose you two are going to walk,” he 
said. “Well, you’re welcome to it, it’s too much for 
me. Come up, Freddy, there’s room for you.” 

The boy protested. “Gee, Mother, can’t I walk?” 

But she overruled him. “You don’t want to get 
all tired out, do you?” 

They bade old Ansen goodbye. “I’m coming out to¬ 
morrow, after cook and I git the camps in shape.” 
He shook Craig’s hand heartily. “Don’t lose any 
more canoes, will you now?” he laughed. 

The buckboard crashed away, banging over the 
rough woods road and out of sight around a sharp 
turn. TJiey watched Ansen paddling slowly back up 


252 


THE QUITTER 


the lake. Then Nancy started walking on. Craig 
caught up to her, kissing her lightly on the cheek. 

“Don’t,” she said, “not now.” 

“But Bobs . . ” 

“Please, please, I mustn’t break down.” She 
looked lovingly at him. 

From ahead came sounds of the wallowing buck- 
board creaking over the stones, striking with sharp 
metallic sound, murdering the peace and quiet of the 
morning. 

“I can’t go back, I can’t,” Craig sobbed. “I’m los¬ 
ing you, Bobs, I . . .” 

She pleaded with him. “Don’t let’s mar the mem¬ 
ory of this last day together. Can’t we be happy 
while we may?” 

At that he quieted down, following her like a 
patient, faithful dog. 


CHAPTER X 


Back in Rockledge once more, the bareness of his 
life came home to him. He plunged into a vortex of 
work, giving the best that was in him. Soldiers on the 
streets, in restaurants, in the subway, on the trains and 
in the theaters, everywhere soldiers. 

Whenever the manifold duties of his business al¬ 
lowed, he motored to the great cantonment where 
Nancy was putting in days and nights again at the 
canteen. He tried to help, to show her, to make her 
feel, the unswerving urge of his devotion. She was 
looking very badly, working much too hard. 

“You’re wearing yourself out, you don’t get enough 
rest, you must take care . . . Please do, for my sake.” 

“It’s little enough that we are doing,” she assured 
him, “when you think of the sacrifice all these boys 
are making.” 

He told himself that when the war was over, things 
would be different, something would happen. He 
couldn’t continue to live on in this way, forever de¬ 
vouring her with his eyes, while he longed to crush her 
in his arms. This cursed war, when would it end ? It 
was turning everything topsy-turvy. 

253 


254 


THE QUITTER 


And then one day when he visited the canteen 
Nancy was not there. Grace met him. 

“I had to send her home yesterday, she has an aw¬ 
ful cold. You know how she is. She should have 
given up days ago.” 

He worked dully that afternoon, driving his car 
around on some small errands for the colonel. Bobs 
was ill, he ought to be at her side. Why couldn’t he 
be there—who had a better right ? 

He went home in a fever of excitement. Telephon¬ 
ing the Emersons’ house, Arthur answered his ring. 
The doctor had just been there, they thought that 
Nancy might be developing pneumonia, the next few 
hours would tell. Everything possible was being 
done, there were two nurses on duty; his voice 
sounded strangely harsh and strident. 

Craig put down the receiver, burying his head in 
his hands. Bobs, his own, his life, his soul; he sunk 
his fingers into his scalp. He would go mad, he was 
going mad. 

Dora took the news calmly. Pneumonia! Gosh, 
there wasn’t much of that about. Probably a slight 
cold; Nancy was strong, a good long rest would bring 
her around. 

At dinner she fussed with Freddy. 

'‘Keep your hands in your lap, act like a young 
gentleman,” 


THE QUITTER 


255 


Craig could not eat and was relieved when the meal 
was ended. He escaped to the solitude of his library, 
where he sat staring into space, his mind filled 
with vague alarms. What was big fat Arthur doing? 
This inactivity was maddening, he wanted to go to 
Nancy, yet what would they think if he persisted? He 
must stay quietly in the background. Suppose though 
that she were really dangerously ill; his mind couldn’t 
grasp that horror. 

Next morning before breakfast, Jimmy called him 
up. It was pneumonia and very serious. She had 
lapsed into unconsciousness about daylight. The doc¬ 
tor was doing all he could, the crisis would be reached 
in ten or twelve hours. Arthur was prostrated with 
alarm. 

Mechanically Craig took his usual train to the city. 
He went to his office, but he couldn’t work, he could 
hardly think. He closed his desk and went uptown. 
Getting out of the subway at Forty-second Street, he 
walked over to the Avenue. On all the buildings flags 
were flying, some foreign dignitary was in town. 

In front of the Public Library a woman was sing¬ 
ing, her voice rising above the roar of traffic. “Keep 
the Home Fires Burning.” He remembered how the 
boys at the cantonment had sung it the day he took 
Nancy to the little inn at the top of the Palisades. 
There was a mist before his eyes. Dazed and bewil- 


THE QUITTER 


256 

dered, he walked on. A jam of people surged around 
him, jostling, pushing. Who in all that throng cared 
about him, knew his grief; strangers, all, with their 
own worlds to conquer, facing their own problems. 
War was a hideous thing, yet what was it beside the 
ache in his own heart, the terror gripping him? So 
he wandered on and in the late hours of the afternoon 
returned home, haggard, worn . . . 

Dora met him in the hall. “She’s still alive, 
but . . . they’re giving oxygen.” 

He grasped the balustrade for support, brushing 
rudely by her, running up the stairs, and in his own 
room abandoning himself to his grief. God was do¬ 
ing this thing to him. What had he ever done to de¬ 
serve it? Hadn’t he lived with Dora for years when 
he really didn’t care for her, had he ever complained, 
ever murmured? And now, the light of his life was 
being taken from him, the only person in all the world 
whom he loved. Was it right? Ministers prated of 
the Divine Justice, where was it? Life couldn’t 
be lived as it ought to be lived, complications, 
conventionalities . . . 

If he could only see her face again, hear the soft 
cadence of her voice. He unlocked the top drawer of 
his dressing case and took out the tiny lace handker¬ 
chief. It still held that dear odor, faint, but there, a 
part of her. He pressed it to his lips while tears 


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257 


coursed down his cheeks, soaking the bit of linen, and 
smothering with their salt tide, the last dim traces of 
the perfume. 


11 

In the quiet hours, after midnight, he paced the 
floor. Dora was long since in bed. She couldn’t stay 
awake, she said, and anyhow, what was there that they 
could do? Sleep was impossible for him, a heavy 
weight lay upon his heart. He listened to the night 
sounds, faint murmurs within the room itself, the 
creaking of the woodwork, a clock ticking steadily 
and once in a while from the street, the gliding whir 
of a passing automobile. The telephone rang . . . 
He clutched at the receiver. Some woman was speak¬ 
ing to him, he didn’t recognize the voice. She ex¬ 
plained that she was one of the nurses. Mrs. Emer¬ 
son had just passed away. Could he come over? Mr. 
Emerson would very much like to see him. He tried 
to get control of himself as he made reply. Putting 
down the instrument, he gave a long quivering sigh. 
So it was over, she was gone. 

He felt no overpowering surge of grief, he seemed 
to have passed that stage. Dry eyed, his face burn¬ 
ing, he went out into the hall. Silence everywhere, as 
always; his house was not changed. That life just 


THE QUITTER 


258 

gone out, to him the only real thing, and now . . . his 
mind was wandering, he pulled himself up with a start. 
He wouldn’t wake Dora and tell her the sad news, he 
believed that he didn’t want to think about her. 

Opening the front door he stepped out into the night. 
Walking slowly, his head bent, shoulders drooping, 
the sound of his foot-falls echoing through the silent 
street. The depth of this grief had numbed his mind, 
his head felt as though it might burst, he pressed his 
hands against his temples to ease the throbbing. 
Arthur Emerson wanted to see him; he smiled a bitter 
smile. . . . 

Toiling up the driveway, the place was dimly 
lighted, shades drawn. He saw a shadow pass swiftly 
in one of the rooms on the second floor. Was that 
the room in which Nancy had died? He pressed the 
button of the electric bell, it tinkled off somewhere in 
the depths of the house. A soft voiced butler let him 
in. His eyes were red and swollen with weeping. 
Mr. Emerson would be so glad that he had come. 
He left Craig standing alone in the hallway and 
shuffled off. 

The marble girl of the fountain, she of the strange 
smile, was looking at him exactly as on that other 
night, years ago it seemed. Indecent piece of sculp¬ 
ture, poor Bobs had been forced to live with that 
sort of thing. Her words came back to him: “That 


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259 


frightens you . . . he’s fond of art, of a sort.” He 
remembered how they had sat side by side there in the 
drawing room. It was dark there now and his eyes 
could not take in details, A foot-fall sounded on the 
thickly carpeted stairway and, turning, he saw Emer¬ 
son slowly descending, looking old and dishevelled. 
About his face there was a gaunt flabbiness. 

Arthur greeted him warmly. “It was good of 
you,” he said brokenly. “I need someone here, I’m 
all in.” He sat down heavily. “It’s all so sudden, 
so unexpected—why, I can’t believe . . 

“Death always surprises, no matter how it comes,” 
Craig said, biting his lip to keep back the tears. 

Arthur clutched his arm. “I haven’t got many 
friends, Hallowell, you and Don and Jimmy. I can’t 
believe that this has happened to me.” Sobs shook his 
big body. 

Craig experienced a feeling of disgust. This hulk¬ 
ing booby. What was he crying for? He had never 
really loved that wonderful wife of his. 

“She was a good woman,” Arthur said chokingly. 
“I realize that now, I never half appreciated her. 
What a cur I’ve been all these years. She never really 
knew, she always trusted me, I think. That’s what 
makes it all the harder, she trusted me and, Lord, I’ve 
gallivanted around plenty. Why must we do such 
things, why can’t we be decent, I wonder ? It’s going 


26 o 


THE QUITTER 


to be hell without her. I can’t stay in this house, she 
was everything here.” 

Craig gazed dumbly at him. It was the most pa¬ 
thetic picture he had ever beheld, Emerson, always so 
sure of himself, never touched by sentimentality, 
blithering now like a little child. 

And his own aching heart, what of that? What 
right had this other man to grieve? She had never 
loved him. Had he ever given her cause for real love 
and devotion? He wondered what Arthur would say 
if he knew the whole truth: almost he wanted to blurt 
it out just to watch him cringe. He felt an overpower¬ 
ing desire to tell all, to smash into that thick skull of 
his the fact that Bobs had never cared for him. . . . 

“She was true,” Arthur ran on, “with all her love 
of life, she was true. People used to tell me that I 
ought to be jealous, so many men were crazy about her. 
But she wouldn’t have done a wrong thing and that’s 
what makes it damnable. It’s the way of women, 
I guess, they’re miles above us. We give way to every 
wandering passion. . . . How can I ever forgive 
myself 1” 

Wearily he laid his great head back, babbling almost 
incoherent words. His arm dropped limply by his 
side, his body relaxed. He fell into a troubled sleep, 
breathing heavily like one at the point of exhaustion. 

And there beside the sleeping man Craig sat think- 


THE QUITTER 


261 


ing, thinking . . . The hours dragged slowly on. 
Why not leave him now ? He had done all he could to 
comfort Emerson, there was nothing more for him 
here, yet he couldn’t tear himself away from that 
house. He waited, knowing not why. Daylight 
came at last, filtering through drawn window 
blinds. . . . 


CHAPTER XI 


To Craig those trying years after the Great War 
were a horror. Life had ended the day they buried 
Nancy’s body, for with it he buried his heart. The 
wild enthusiasms of Armistice Day meant nothing to 
him, all his thoughts, all his mind, centered on that 
being who now was gone forever. 

Don and Elizabeth returned from France. Walden, 
with his grave face and soft voice, hair graying at the 
temples, showed nothing of the old Don. The war had 
changed him completely. 

“I never really knew what life meant till I went 
across,” he told Craig. “Something inside of me has 
changed, I’m not the same person I used to be.” 

And small Elizabeth; there was a sad sweetness 
about her face, a look of understanding in her eyes. 
Visiting Craig and Dora in Rockledge, for a few days, 
they told wonderful tales of heroism and sacrifice. 
They were going to devote their lives to something 
better now than, as Elizabeth put it, “bridge and 
jazz.” It saddened Craig, this metamorphosis of two 
people whom he knew so well. But it was only one 
among innumerable changes. Reconstruction with its 
problems, the complicated political situation, prohibi- 
262 


THE QUITTER 


263 

tion,—nothing was stable any more, the world was 
drifting. What had been accomplished by those four 
terrible years of bloodshed? 

Freddy, young sprig, what did he care who won the 
war ? That didn't interest him. He thought the Wal¬ 
dens stupid people. Something vastly more attractive 
was his, life was a gay whirl with plenty of bootleg 
liquor . . . 

Stories of wild parties were bandied about. Dora 
fussed and fretted. “This generation’s rotten . . . 
Freddy’s a good boy, but it’s the way he’s led. It’s 
the attitude of mind of the people.” She argued with 
the boy about it. 

“Well, what can you expect,” he threw back at her. 
“Do you want us to live like a lot of doddering old 
people after all these months of crying, tears and hor¬ 
rors? Isn’t there some joy left in the world? What 
if some of the boys were drunk last night, that isn’t 
a deadly sin. The girls don’t mind it any more, they’re 
used to it. I can’t see why you make such a fuss, you 
lived in bygone days.” 

But it wasn’t fussing over nothing to Dora and she 
went at it in her own way, nagging him about it con¬ 
tinually. “You aren’t going to be the young gentle¬ 
man I had always pictured . . 

“Oh damn that young gentleman thing, Mother. 
I’m no worse than any of the rest.” 


264 


THE QUITTER 


His father couldn’t get very far with him either. 
Freddy showed a certain distrust, never came out 
frankly in the open, he had a knack of always evad¬ 
ing issues, worming out on some pretext or other, 
living a life wholly his own. He was disrespect¬ 
ful, too, with an arrogant, overbearing manner that 
was riding down everything with which it came in 
contact. 

His college entrance examinations gave him great 
difficulty and it was necessary to tutor all one summer. 
Craig hardly believed that he would enter Yale, but 
by some hook or crook, as always with him, he made 
it and his father was delighted the day he left home 
to take up his life at college. He needed that sort of 
thing, too much pampering on the part of a doting 
mother was ruining him. Coming up against odds, 
contact with men from all over the country, might 
change some of his wild opinions, tone down his 
egotism. 

But in spite of his wild ways and those innumerable 
arguments, they missed him after he went away. His 
mother waited anxiously for letters, which rarely came 
and when they did she read them over and over. 

“I know he’ll settle down,” she assured Craig. 
“He’s a nervous, high-strung boy. Life these last 
few years in Rockledge hasn’t been good for him, it 
really isn’t what a young person should have.” 


THE QUITTER 


265 


‘‘He’s old enough to shift for himself a little,” 
Craig said. “I’m not going to worry unduly about 
him.” 


11 

Life in that house after the boy left did not work 
out a pleasant thing. Freddy had been an unrealized 
buffer between his father and mother; Craig sensed 
that not many days after he went away. Dora was 
becoming impossible. That love, snatched away from 
him by Nancy’s untimely death : what was there to 
compensate for it? He hated to go home. He had 
ceased to care for his wife, that passion of an early 
day had long since passed. To him she was simply 
a person, a fretful personality that he was disliking 
more and more. 

They had little in common, she never did anything 
that he wanted her to do and he was growing to hate 
the sight of her with her colorless eyes and long, 
stringy hair. Her laugh had become a series of 
nervous cackles, which sometimes irritated him be¬ 
yond endurance. And she always seemed so helpless. 
What a woman for him to have married, he must have 
been crazy that day, years ago. Marriage, what a 
mess . . . 

Thinking these thoughts, day after day, night after 
night, burning them into his consciousness, he at 


266 


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length came to the conclusion that he could no longer 
stay in the same house with Dora. He was living a 
lie; it was awful, this existence of theirs. Over and 
over he told himself that he didn’t have to keep it up, 
could just as well leave her, she would be quite as 
serene and happy lacking his company, happier in fact. 

But the idea, once germinated, took time to grow. 
There were small things everywhere, little matters, 
tiny reasons why he told himself that it had better 
not happen just yet. He became obsessed with the 
notion of leaving, revolving it over and over again, 
looking at it from every angle, thinking of little else. 
He would take an apartment in the city, in New York, 
he liked the flair of that thought, it fascinated him. 
There were a thousand things that he could do, once 
living that New York existence, things that he had 
wanted to do for years. He would simply pack up, 
write her a letter and take up his residence elsewhere. 
She could live as she chose, in Rockledge, anywhere 
under the sun. He would provide for her hand¬ 
somely, would give her plenty of money: no one could 
ever say that he wanted to be mean about the matter. 

He found her poring over a letter one evening. 

“It’s from Freddy,” she said. “I want you to 
read it.” 


THE QUITTER 


267 

He read, thinking the thing a commonplace enough 
piece of writing. When he had finished, he tossed it 
on the table. 

“Well?” she inquired. 

“Well, what do you mean?” 

“Aren’t you interested in his welfare?” 

“What a silly question, of course I am.” 

“You don’t act that way. I thought that letter 
quite interesting.” 

He mused a moment. “Just what makes you say 
that I don’t show interest in Freddy’s welfare? Why 
do you say that ? Why do you think that ?” He was 
flaring up. 

“You never talk about him any more, you’re just 
moody and quiet all the time.” 

“Of course, just because I don’t continually blither 
over him, treating him as though he were still a baby, 
you accuse me of not caring about his welfare. It’s 
on a par with most of the things you do.” 

She didn’t answer this sally, taking up her sewing, 
going on with the work as though nothing had been 
said. He wondered what she was thinking about, was 
she angry at the way he had spoken? 

“You think, I suppose, that I ought to know when 
he puts on his heavy underwear,” he said sarcastically, 
“or whether his socks need darning. Will you ever 


268 


THE QUITTER 


get it into your head that he’s a man? How you’ve 
coddled him, it’s a wonder to me that he’s ever lived 
through it.” He stamped out of the room. 


hi 

He laid his plans carefully, telling Dora that he 
must make a trip west on business, that he was going 
to take a train that very night. She bade him goodbye 
when her bedtime came, going up to her room early 
as was her regular custom and leaving him to himself 
in that room where so many of his problems had been 
worked to a conclusion; his silent library. She kissed 
him, brushing his cheek lightly with her lips and he 
wondered what she would say if she knew that this 
was to be goodbye forever. Watching her, as she 
slowly walked upstairs, he marveled at her passiveness. 
Of late she had been that way, seemingly crushed 
down by some oppression. Was it because Freddy 
was not with her any more? 

Seating himself at his desk, he formulated a letter 
to his wife. He put himself into that letter. He told 
her in no uncertain words that he had ceased to love 
her, he assured her that he was tired, dead sick of liv¬ 
ing such a sham existence, that he was going to leave 
and let her work out her own salvation. He gave 
her firm assurance that he felt it best for them to live 


THE QUITTER 


269 

apart, they would both be free. Freddy’s future held 
no worries for him, he would come out all right. It 
was a long epistle, he took great pains in its construc¬ 
tion, reading it through, changing a word here and 
there, until it seemed to him a solid, sensible document, 
a summing up of everything that lay upon his heart. 
Searching the corners of his mind, he could find in it 
nothing which seemed to him out of the way, unusual. 
He was firmly convinced that he was doing the only 
thing possible; it satisfied him thoroughly. He ad¬ 
dressed the envelope, stamped it in the proper place, 
then deposited the letter in his pocket, thinking to mail 
it within the next twenty-four hours. 

Turning out the library lights, he picked up his 
coat, hat and grip in the hall and, calling the car, 
stepped outside. Just as he was closing the front 
door behind him, the telephone tinkled and though he 
had renounced this house and all that it contained, he 
went back through sheer force of habit, wondering 
who might be calling up at such a time of the night. 
Someone read a telegram to him. It was from 
Freddy, disturbing news, he was in some sort of trou¬ 
ble and wanted his father to come up to New Haven 
and see him. What deviltry might it be? Craig 
thought it probably some wild escapade that had landed 
him near jail. Just as well that Dora hadn’t heard of 
it. If he hurried now, he would be able to make the 


270 


THE QUITTER 

early morning news train out of the Grand Central. 
Yet he might leave the telegram and let his wife face 
this thing herself, but the wire was addressed to 
him. . . . He jumped into his automobile and whirled 
to the depot. 

Everything he traveled in seemed bent on barely 
crawling. 

He made the train with only a moment to spare. 

Seated in a dingy day-coach, he had a chance to col¬ 
lect his thoughts. Curious thing, how he had just 
gotten that telegram: one second later . . . The letter 
reposing in his pocket, he wondered how Dora would 
take it. 

The train stopped at every station; working men 
seemed to be the passengers. It was just coming day¬ 
light when he alighted at New Haven. What a crazy 
hour to go to Freddy, but the telegram had sounded 
urgent enough. He called a cab, giving the driver the 
address and, jumping in, was driven through deserted 
streets in the chill of early morning. This old college 
town, he had known it so well. It wasn’t the place he 
used to love, little remained to remind him of those 
dim, almost forgotten days. 

It was a hustling city now. As they drove into the 
center, he missed the old elms. The tower of the 
Harkness Memorial, standing out against the slowly 
lightening sky; all this was new, of a generation un- 


THE QUITTER 


271 

known to him. What was the college life like in these 
modern times, was it anything approaching what he 
had known . . . 

The taxi, running on two cylinders, lurching about, 
grinding along, brought him at length to a narrow 
street, where in the spreading light of dawn the elec¬ 
tric lights were paling. The driver opened the door, 
holding out his hand for the fare. From somewhere 
across the way floated the strains of a weird quartet, 
men’s voices raised in a questionable harmony. He 
smiled to himself as recollections crowded his mind. 
Examining the house where his son lived, it struck 
him as being rather dilapidated looking, an old- 
fashioned, brownstone affair with a flight of weather¬ 
beaten steps leading up to the front door. The stone 
of the balustrade had sluffed off, making a gap which 
gave the whole place somewhat the aspect of a ruin. 

He pulled at the bell. It clanged dismally, jangling 
somewhere within. He waited then what seemed to 
him a very long time, and as no answer came to his 
ring, he yanked at the knob once more. 

What was his son doing in such a joint as this? 
Dora had said that he was living in one of the dormi¬ 
tories. Of a sudden it came over him that the thing 
was most surprising. Still nobody answered the bell. 
Examining the number dimly to be seen on the dirty 
glass louver over the doorway, he assured himself that 


272 


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it was the correct address, the one given in the tele¬ 
gram. His anger was rising, rotten business this; he 
gave a mighty tug at the knob, almost wrenching it 
free. A window directly over his head was suddenly 
flung up, and a face appeared in the opening while a 
shrill female voice demanded to know what he wanted. 
Craig stated the reason for his call, and the voice 
assured him that Freddy was not at home. 

“But he wired me to meet him here.” 

“I’m telling you he isn’t in; who are you anyhow?” 

“Only his father,” Craig answered sarcastically. 

“My Gawd, his father, of course. How dumb of 
me. Wait a minute and I’ll come down and let you in.” 

He was stupefied; who was this coarse voiced 
woman; what had she to do with Freddy?” 

He gazed across the dirty, shabby street, filthy gut¬ 
ters, brimming ash cans standing at the curb. What a 
mess of a place it was. 

The door opened and he stepped into a dark hall¬ 
way, where for a moment he could see but little in the 
thick gloom. He realized that the woman, whoever 
she might be, was standing beside him. 

“I’m Milly,” the girl said, simply, as though that 
piece of information carried worlds of meaning. He 
looked sharply at her. Over her night gown she had 
thrown a pink dressing sacque. 

“Milly,” he said, dully, his mind groping. 


THE QUITTER 


273 


She led the way into a small parlor, where she pulled 
up the shades, letting into the room a dull gray light. 

“You can wait here,” she told him, “Freddy will be 
in soon, I think; I’ll just go upstairs and get some 
clothes on.” 

She looked frightened; her hands were trembling. 
Leaving him to conjure on the strangeness of his sur¬ 
roundings, she swept out. Who was the girl; to what 
depths was Freddy sinking? 

The room in which he waited had about it an 
air of gaudy cheapness. Wall paper, sprinkled with 
enormous flowers of brilliant reds and blues, glared 
at him. Pasted all about were colored lithographs, 
heads of girls, covers taken from old magazines; on 
the floor lay a rug, a riot of wild tones. Over in one 
corner stood a phonograph, and beside it, a pile of 
records in great disorder. The window curtains were 
made of a cheap material, splashed with more rainbow 
tints. He gazed out through dusty panes of glass. 

And this was the place where his son was living, 
impossible to believe. The girl . . . Freddy was in 
trouble . . . well, they could buy her off, such things 
had happened before. Money, that was probably all 
she wanted, but what a little fool the boy was, what 
a situation to get himself into. 

Somebody rattled a key in the lock of the front 
door. He heard it swing back on creaky hinges. In 


274 


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the passage a step sounded. Craig went out into the 
hall, meeting Freddy face to face. He was a trifle 
the worse for liquor, blinking at his father a moment 
with uncertain eyes, “Dad, what the h— . . . where 
did you come from?” he asked, thickly. Then the 
shock of this sudden meeting clearing somewhat his 
addled brain, “Oh yes, the telegram, I remember now, 
but I didn’t expect you so soon. Come in and sit 
down, will you?” 

Lurching unsteadily into the parlor, he sprawled 
out upon one of the chairs. “Have a cigarette?” he 
asked kindly, offering the pack with a grand air. 

“No thanks,” Craig said frigidly. “Let’s get down 
to business . . and waving his arm about the room, 
“what is all this? What deviltry are you up to, tell 
me that, will you?” His voice was loud, the veins in 
his temples stood out like cords. 

“Now please, don’t get excited,” Freddy urged. 
“There’s nothing to get all wrought up about. I’ll tell 
you if you’ll only give me a chance.” He puffed la¬ 
boriously at his cigarette. He was thin, his tight fit¬ 
ting blue serge suit bringing out the slightness of his 
figure. His face was very pale. “Gee, but I’m glad 
you came up,” he said, laying a hand on his father’s 
knee. 

“All right, but I’m waiting to hear what you have 
to say.” 


THE QUITTER 


275 

Freddy coughed, “Eve had a hard time—it’ll be 
difficult to make you understand. . . .” 

Milly came in from the hall. The boy rose*, kissing 
her affectionately. “This is my father, Milly, salt of 
the earth, my father, honest he is . . 

Craig looked curiously at her. She had put on a 
dark blue dress, a little shabby, with white at the neck 
and wrists. Her corn-colored hair, bobbed, and curl¬ 
ing about her temples, cheeks rouged, lips a bright red; 
his face showed his scorn. 

“Now, boy,” she soothed Freddy, “you’re upset. 
I’m going to make you a cup of coffee,” and turning to 
Craig, “he’ll feel better when he has a good drink 
of coffee. Just you wait a minute,” and she left 
them. 

“Who is that woman?” Craig demanded fiercely. 
“What is she to you—answer me, will you?” 

Freddy eyed him calmly, “Don’t get rough, you’ll 
hear all about it. Can’t you wait a minute?” 

“Of all the damnable situations!” 

“Dad,” the boy said earnestly, “don’t go on like this, 
please don’t. I’ve been through hell, you must help 
Milly and me.” His face was drawn,, in his tone a 
great pleading. 

“What have you been doing with yourself?” his 
father said, softened somewhat by his evident distress. 
“You must remember that I’m still in the dark, and 


276 


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unless you make a clean breast of things, we aren’t 
going to get very far.” 

“Well,” in a voice that was low and trembling with 
suppressed emotions, “I haven’t been at college much. 
I’ve been working, and you see . . .” 

Milly returned with three cups and a coffee pot on 
a tray. “I’ll give it to Freddy first, if you don’t 
mind,” she said, looking at Craig with an appealing 
look. “He needs it more than we do.” She poured 
him out a cup, which he gulped greedily, demanding 
more, and seating herself on the arm of his chair, 
she smoothed his hair back, gently with her hand. 
“Come, pull yourself together,” she said quietly, “we 
must tell him all about everything. You wanted him 
to come to us, so now we’ve got to deliver.” In spite 
of his loathing for the whole thing, Craig found him¬ 
self in some wild way admiring this child, whoever 
she was, for she seemed little more than a child, yet 
carried about her a dignity that matched ill with her 
bleached hair and rouged lips—her whole personality. 

In broken, disjointed fragments, Freddy told his 
story, helped out with words of encouragement and 
advice from Milly. She had been a chorus girl in a 
cheap show, they had lived together now for a couple 
of months. “You can’t begin to believe how much I 
care for her,” the boy finished, “I love her, that’s why 


THE QUITTER 277 

I wired you. We’re up against it, haven’t any money 
left and . . 

“So you go out and get yourself disgracefully 
drunk,” Craig raged. “Let me tell you, you’ll wait a 
long time before I’ll help you. A son of mine wal¬ 
lowing in such a mire. What would your poor 
mother say if she knew?” He paced the floor. 

Milly was crying softly, “I don’t amount to much,” 
she said, “I know that, but he’s the first man I ever 
cared for, and I ain’t been a bad girl.” She sobbed 
convulsively, while Freddy tried to comfort her. 

“You say that you’ve been working,” Craig stopped 
in his nervous walk. “Why in the world have you 
been doing that, why haven’t you been at your classes ? 
Answer me that, will you?” He glared at his son. 

“Oh, I knew that you’d never understand,” the boy 
wailed. “Can’t you believe me when I tell you that I 
love Milly—I don’t want anything else in the world 
but her.” 

“And you are willing then, to ruin your whole life, 
to give up your future for this, this . . . ?” 

“Father, don’t say it, don’t you dare say it,” the 
fumes of his liquor were passing off. He was white 
and shaken. 

Craig looked at him, and smiled a sardonic smile, 
“Then you expect me to approve of your conduct, do 


278 


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you? Here I find you wallowing in this filthy mire, 
and you ask me to give you a helping hand. Do you 
think that I’m crazy? Don’t you think that I know 
what this woman wants? This is no new situation— 
people of her stamp do this sort of thing every day.” 
He turned on the girl, “You’ve bitten off a little more 
than you can chew this time,” he said. “Get out of 
here, and leave my son alone.” 

For a moment there was a silence in the room, then 
Freddy got up slowly from his chair, “So I’m wal¬ 
lowing in the mire, am I?” his voice was hoarse and 
wild. “That makes me smile. You with your talk of 
morality and virtue . . . you try to preach to me. 
My God, it was only death that saved you and Nancy 
Emerson from a rotten show, wasn’t it?” 

Craig glared at him, while his hands clenched nerv¬ 
ously, “You dirty young blackguard, how dare you 
mention that sainted woman’s name?” 

The boy grinned, “Oh I hit you, did I?” he said 
bitterly, “I thought as much.” 

“What do you mean?” his father demanded. 

“I mean that you never fooled me. I knew that 
you and she were . . . oh, what’s the use of going 
on. Do you suppose that as I grew older I didn’t 
sense a lot of things that as a kid meant nothing to 
me. That time you were marooned on the other side 
of the lake with her I was only a child. I didn’t com- 


THE QUITTER 


279 


prehend, but afterwards your treatment of mother, 
your attitude after Nancy’s death! I caught you once 
kissing a handkerchief. And now you try to preach 
to me. What a joke! I’m asking you not to talk 
morality, because you can’t do it—I love Milly, we’ve 
lived together, and we aren’t married. Is that such a 
deadly sin in your eyes? Isn’t it the very thing you 
would have given your life to do with Nancy? The 
thing you would have done if she had not been taken 
from you? You try to read me a sermon . . 

Milly wept convulsively. 

Freddy encircled her shoulders with a protecting 
arm. A faint gleam of sunlight made a brilliant spot 
on the gayly colored rug. 

Craig tried to think, to collect himself, to get pos¬ 
session of his faculties and at last, finding his voice, 
“It’s true,” he said bitterly, “I loved Nancy, but you, 
poor children, you could never understand what that 
love meant to me, it isn’t in you.” He passed his 
hand wearily over his eyes, “This passion of yours, 
you think that you care for each other, you’ll be hat¬ 
ing in less than a year.” 

Milly raised a tear-stained face, “Freddy here,” she 
said, “he’s been awful good to me. I haven’t had 
many friends, but I don’t want to get him into a lot 
of trouble. If he’s got the goods on you, governor, 
don’t take it too hard, we’re all human, I guess.” 


28 o 


THE QUITTER 


“All human,” those words sounded strange, coming 
from her, and yet, wasn’t she right, this tawny-haired 
girl, and if he believed his love for poor Bobs a 
sacred thing, what right had he to rail now at his 
son’s conduct? Wasn’t he largely to blame for the 
boy’s present plight; had he ever told him of the 
things of the world? Hadn’t he stood outside during 
all those formative years, outside, nursing in his own 
heart that wound caused by the breaking up of his 
whole life’s happiness. The fault was his, he must 
acknowledge it. 

“Dad,” said Freddy quietly, “I’m sorry that I hurt 
you. Please forgive me if you can. You’ll help us 
now, won’t you? This thing will hit poor mother 
terribly hard, but you can fix it with her.” 

“She would never understand,” Craig said slowly, 
“and she will never know if I can prevent it.” 

“But she’s got to,” Freddy urged, “you must tell 
her. You see we’re going to have a baby, and . . 

“Yes, and I ain’t ashamed of it either,” Milly flung 
the words at him. “Why should I be, we love each 
other, and that’s more than can be said of lots of 
other folks who are married and get children.” She 
clutched the boy by the arm, “We’re going to get 
married soon, aren’t we?” 

Craig’s mind was in a tumult. So now he must go 


THE QUITTER 


281 

back once more to that house he hated, back to Dora 
whom he had thought to have left for good and all. 
The thought of it made him wince. Yet what other 
course was possible—who else could soften this blow? 
He could picture her utter despair, when once she heard 
the story, her helplessness in such a situation, she 
never would be able to battle it out alone. This son 
of theirs, the apple of his mother’s eye; she had given 
the best of her life to him, had sacrificed her youth, 
had slaved and planned. He remembered the look of 
anguish that used to come into her face, when she 
thought that something was the matter with him. 
Those days and nights of anxiety, those months of 
early babyhood, when he seemed to be always going 
backward; she had taken it so hard, so very hard, but 
then it was her way. He sighed at the recollection. 
Why hadn’t the boy been allowed to know his father 
better? That was it. Dora had always kept him to 
herself; how often had he been told that he didn’t 
understand children? It was all a muddle now, a 
horrible tragedy, and yet . . . He looked at them. 
Freddy, seated on the arm of Milly’s chair, was trying 
to comfort her. She was crying bitterly. Young 
things, how very immature they seemed, these two, 
drawn together by a force ages old. Love . . . they 
imagined that they had found it; well, time would 


282 


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tell that tale. He remembered vividly those days of 
his own youth. Who could have made him believe 
that only a few years and . . . this? 

He got up heavily from his chair, and stood before 
them. 

“Ell see you through/' he said, his voice full of 
suppressed emotion, “you can depend upon me.” 

Freddy hugged him impulsively, while Milly kissed 
him full upon the lips. “I saw you was O. K. the 
first minute I set eyes on you,” she cried excitedly, 
smiling at him through tear-dimmed eyes. “Freddy, 
your father is a brick, ain’t you proud of him?” 

Late in the morning, over a breakfast prepared by 
the girl herself, they had a long talk. Freddy was 
firm in his refusal to continue at college. 

“I’ve got to go out now and earn some money of 
my own,” he told them. “With my responsibilities, I 
can't afford to waste any time.” 

His father wanted to object, it seemed such a sacri¬ 
fice, and looking at Milly, he wondered how his son 
could so blind himself, throwing away a future, for 
what ... a seductive little creature. Ah well, they 
would probably depend upon the parental tie for many 
years to come. It made him smile to hear the boy 
talk so glibly of going into business. Poor lad . . . 
yet something might come out of it after all. Milly 


THE QUITTER 283 

was young, bright, and with a little polish added, 
wonders might be accomplished. 

He would make it his life’s work now, to see this 
thing through, to give to both of them the best that 
he could. The boy must work. Yes, that was es¬ 
sential. He would have to realize what life really 
meant. He marveled at their lightness of heart, now 
that worry for the immediate future had been lifted. 
They laughed and chatted gayly, almost oblivious of 
the fact that he was in the room. 

Youth, with its illusions. He wondered how many 
of them would be broken and shattered ere they two 
came to middle life. Those bright shining days of 
his own boyhood, his confidence in the future, his 
belief and trust in humanity; it was good that in 
the scheme of things, youth held to its beliefs, for 
through that dark valley of the years they would 
be needed. 

Time came for him to go, there was nothing else 
that he could do here. He left them, promising that 
they should come home, after he had prepared the 
wav. 

Effusively, they bid him good-by, yet somehow he 
felt that neither of them appreciated the true meaning 
of their situation, and as they watched him slowly 
walking down the dingy street, Milly, her arm about 


284 


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the boy, observed, “He ain’t a hard bird to deal with, 
is he?” and, after a pause, “I like him fine.” Freddy 
did not answer her; his eyes were brimming with 
tears. 


IV 

In the train Craig sat gazing out of the window at 
the flying countryside, brown and seared with the 
frosts of early winter. He had made a mess of his 
life; something within kept telling him that he might 
have done better. It was his fault, this smashing up 
of everything. Yet he had tried to do right, nobody 
could ever accuse him of not trying. He felt old 
and gray, crushed by a sense of his own littleness. 

What was there for him in the coming years, what 
of hope, of joy . . . Dora, his wife, small girl of 
those dim, half forgotten days. Suddenly he felt an 
overwhelming pity for her. That love for Nancy, the 
one thing in his life that seemed worth while, the 
thing that he had cherished to himself; he would tell 
her of it, she must hear that story from his own lips, 
he would ask for forgiveness. Only in that way, could 
he find rest and peace. And Freddy, he shuddered 
at the thought of what that revelation would mean. 
But it must be, he had to tell her all, he would be with 
her; alone, she never could stand the strain, but with 
his aid, with him to comfort her . . . 


THE QUITTER 


285 


Hours that day, he spent in deep meditation. His 
mind was calm, he could face her whatever she might 
say. He felt buoyed up by an unknown, unsuspected 
strength. 

Late at night he alighted at the Rockledge station. 
Stars were shining out of a cold clear sky. One lone 
taxi awaited the coming of the train, but he waved it 
aside, and started walking up the hill. The town was 
long since asleep, few houses showing a glimmer of 
light. He walked with a firm swinging stride, breath¬ 
ing deep, the cool night air. Of a sudden, he thought 
of that letter to Dora, still reposing in the pocket of 
his overcoat. It burned his side, and taking it out, he 
tore it into small bits, scattering the fragments to the 
four winds of heaven. His house was shrouded in 
darkness, and as he mounted the piazza steps, he gazed 
for a moment upward, at the stars, twinkling points of 
light in a sea of blackness, and from somewhere out 
of that limitless void, there came to him the sound of 
a calm and serene voice, and he fancied that he could 
see again, a face, glad and smiling . . . 

His key rattled in the lock of the front door. Turn¬ 
ing on the electric light in the hall, and depositing 
his coat and hat in the closet, he picked up his travel¬ 
ing bag, and slowly ascended the stairs. 


THE END 







X 

















